


Unauthorized Understudy

by FidotheFinch



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Dick Grayson is Batman, Gen, Kidnapping, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2019-09-05 17:52:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 39,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16815559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FidotheFinch/pseuds/FidotheFinch
Summary: Damian clenched his teeth. “You think wearing a Deluxe Batman costume from Gotham Express makes you the Batman?”The man grinned. It was nothing like Grayon’s—or his father’s, had he ever grinned in the cowl. It was malicious. “No, but you will.”He pulled something from underneath his suit, obscured by the cape until he had a hand on Damian’s shoulder, pinning him to the wall. Damian’s eyes widened when he recognized the red loop of fabric for what it was: a collar.-----Written for Bad Things Happen Bingo: Collared and Chained.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a one-shot fulfilling the prompt of "Collared and Chained" for Bad Things Happen Bingo. Then I took the idea and ran with it. Oops?

“How much longer will they be?”

James Gordon had to pull back his gloves to check his watch. “I’ll give them another ten minutes.” He rubbed his hands together to try and get some warmth back into his fingertips.

The officer standing next to him—Gordon’s assigned body guard—huffed, causing the air around him to fog up. “The _old_ Batman never took this long.”

Gordon gave the man—Michael Heymann—a wary eye. The commissioner didn’t know who was under the Batman mask, necessarily, but knew that for the last several months it wasn’t the same guy. It happened occasionally, and he usually figured it was an injury. Mostly he was glad there was always somebody to patrol with Robin, because—especially with this newest one—he got the feeling that the kid would be out regardless.

But the Real Batman had never disappeared for this long before.

It was only a matter of time before somebody else figured it out, too.

“The new guy’s always late to these things.” Officer Heymann leaned back against the air conditioning unit attached to the roof and crossed his beefy arms. “Doesn’t take his job as seriously.”

Heymann jumped almost a foot in the air when somebody whispered, “Say it to his face, then.”

“Robin,” Batman admonished. The vigilante shifted, and it was as though the shadows unwrapped themselves from his cape. “Commissioner.”

Gordon nodded. “Batman.”

Robin cleared his throat.

“Robin,” he added.

“Gordon,” Robin nodded in acknowledgment.

Heymann recovered from his shock with annoyance. “What took you so long? We’ve been waiting out here an hour!”

Batman coolly stepped back to judge the other officer. “We came as soon as we could.” He addressed the commissioner as he continued, “Apprehended five perps involved in a jewelry store robbery. They are waiting on the corner of fifth and Blackthorne.”

Robin, facing Gordon, felt the other officer looking at him. He glanced over his shoulder to see an odd look on his face.

“We will send a crew to pick them up immediately,” the commissioner said. He noticed Robin watching the other man, so gestured for Michael to step forward. “Batman, Robin, this is Officer Heymann.”

Heymann nodded his head, and the vigilantes mirrored the curt greeting.

“You don’t usually bring fans to these meetings,” Robin grumbled. The man was big, built like a gym rat. And he kept sneaking glances at him like he was hiding something.

Comissioner Gordon frowned. “It was outside my control.”

“I’m his body guard,” Heymann offered. He stood a few centimeters taller as he announced it.

At Batman’s questioning silence, Gordon continued. “Somebody has been sending me anonymous threats. We thought they were harmless, but the mayor and two members of city council received similar letters this morning, with blackmail.”

Batman hummed in agreement. “Show me?”

“Right. This way.”

The vigilantes and Officer Heymann followed the commissioner into his office, where he promptly closed the blinds and pulled open his laptop. A manilla folder had been nestled inside. “The threats were delivered through the mail, no return address.” He showed a copy of one of the letters. “Typed in a 12-point font, typical printer ink, on basic printer paper.”

He handed the copy to Batman, who examined it a moment before passing it to Robin. “And the blackmail?”

“Yes, I can pull it up on my laptop.” The commissioner paused his typing to look up over his screen. “The victims asked we not share the direct evidence with many people. It is. . . private information.” He gave Robin a pointed look.

Robin crossed his arms. “Is it sex? That does not bother me.”

Batman pointed at the door.

Robin’s face twisted with irritation. “I am not a toddler!”

“Robin.” The voice was stern, but had an undercurrent of something more fond underneath.

Robin pursed his lips, but slipped out the door without another word of protest.

Heymann watched him leave with crossed arms. He only barely glanced over his shoulder at Batman and Gordon, saying, “I’ll make sure he stays out of trouble,” before he followed Robin out the door.

Damian decided to wait on the roof. It was too crowded inside, and too warm for his thermal Robin suit to tolerate. Grayson had to be sweating downstairs.

He sat in the shadow of the air conditioning unit, surveying the Gotham skyline, itching to get moving again. He and Grayson had already seen the gist of the blackmail; Grayson had warned him to feign naiveite for the night. He bristled under the censorship until it was explained to him that Alfred would encourage ‘further discussion on the topic’ if anybody knew he had seen it.

“Hey, kid.” Damian’s gaze shot toward the door. He was not at all surprised to see that the man had followed him. Some body guard he was.

Damian stood and faced him, stepping barely out of the shadows. “You may address me as ‘Robin.’”

The man smiled, and there was that expression again. But it was sharper, wider. With a chill, Damian understood it better this time.

It was predatory.

He dropped his weight into the balls of his feet and his fingers curled into fists. “You are hiding something.”

Heymann’s smile stretched, and then a laugh bubbled out. “You’re a smart kid, eh? Guess one of you would have to be.”

He took a step forward. Damian realized belatedly that he was cornered between the air conditioning unit and the edge of the building. He could grapple away, but then he wouldn’t get his answers.

No, he would fight this out. But first, he had to catch the guy.

“Look, I need to make this fast.” Heymann pulled out a gun from his holster.

Damian froze. The fastest way out was over him, but the closer he got, the easier target. And the more deadly.

“Why don’t you lie down and put your hands behind you head for me? It will make this easier on both of us.”

Damian didn’t dare look away from the gun. He didn’t know enough about Heymann to know whether he intended to use it.

Slowly, he inched one leg down into a kneel. Heymann’s ugly smile got wider. “That’s it, easy does it.”

Without warning, Damian rolled forward and lunged at the man. The gun _clicked_ when Heymann’s finger closed on the trigger. Damian smirked. Empty. This would be easy.

With his momentum, he managed to knock Heymann back a few steps. But it didn’t seem to so much as wind the big guy. As Damian retreated, the man swung his gun arm around and managed to make contact with his shoulder. It was hard enough to send him off-balance.

Damian rolled with the momentum it gave him, gritting his teeth when it put pressure on his throbbing shoulder, to stand behind Heymann. He reached for the larger man’s right arm to pull him into a pin, but the man ducked and swung a leg back, narrowly missing sweeping out Damian’s legs. Damian changed directions, pivoting to land a hard kick to the side of his head. Heymann grunted, but dropped his gun to grab at Damian’s leg.

Damian pulled back fast, but not fast enough. With a hard yank, Heymann pulled him closer. With a careful twist, Damian’s leg slipped free again.

Damian couldn’t help but feel like the man was toying with him. Fast enough to catch him, but slow enough to lose him again? Something was up. Damian frowned as he leapt over Heymann’s lunge. He used the man’s body as a springboard to launch himself several feet out of his reach. Grayson had taught him that.

Before Heymann could recover, Damian pulled his right arm out and over into a pin, bending the larger man into a kneel.

He took a moment to catch his breath, not daring let his grip soften. He had to use two hands to reach around his arm, and it took his all of his weight on his back to keep the man from rolling over. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re hiding.” Damian smirked in triumph. “It will make this easier on the both of us.”

Heymann was panting heavily, but between inhales his breath caught in cloudy puffs of laughter. Damian tightened his grip, pushing the pin a little further.

Without warning, Heymann dropped his left side and rolled. Damian dropped his arm to step back, but not fast enough.

There was a pinch in his thigh. Every muscle in his body contracted as one. Damian dropped like a stone, head cracking against the roof’s concrete. Little arcs of electricity leapt from his neck to the comm in his ear, from his chest to the tracker hidden in the ‘R’ insignia. He clenched his teeth and involuntary tears welled up in his eyes.

“Not bad, kid,” Heymann chuckled. He stood up and brushed concrete dust off his uniform pants. A quick roll of his shoulder, and it made a small popping noise before settling.

Heymann watched Damian writhe with a soft smile. “You put up a decent fight.”

Finally, he picked up the Taser gun and turned off the electricity. Damian’s first instinct was to get up, keep on fighting. His second, much stronger instinct was to sleep. Everything _hurt_.

Heymann pulled the Taser probes out of Damian’s thigh. “It would have been so much easier if you would have just done what I said.” He clucked his tongue when Damian glared up at him. “It’s the fake Batman’s fault, teaching you like this. He doesn’t do it the right way.”

Before Damian had figured out how to move again, Heymann pulled a syringe from the inside of his jacket pocket and uncapped it. “Wonder where the best place to inject this is?”

It was all beginning to click into place. “You planned this. You’re the one who sent the threats.”

Heymann shrugged. “I needed some way to get you here, on my terms. And separate you from that imposter.”

He knelt over Damian. The boy weakly fought to push him off, but the large man effortlessly pinned Damian’s forearms beneath each of his knees with crushing force. The first two catches in his Robin uniform were unclasped too easily; the emergency defense system must have shorted out with the Taser. Heymann pushed Damian’s chin up, exposing his neck. “This may pinch.”

He thrust the syringe into his neck and pushed in all its contents.

The effects were instantaneous. Damian could feel his muscles relaxing, gravity increasing its pull. Heymann hefted Damian up over his shoulder, and there were a few terribly dizzying seconds of swaying confusion before they entered a small and dark enclosure—the utility closet, his brain supplied. Heymann laid him down almost gently in the corner, where the cold instantly started to leech into his still limbs.

Just as Heymann started to close the door behind him, Damian found words. “Wait.”

Heymann paused, reopening the door a sliver of a fraction. “What is it, Robin?”

The way he said it sent chills down Damian’s spine. “If you’re so mad at him, then why come after me?”

Heymann’s braw drew together. “Gotham needs a Batman.” He squared his shoulders. “And Batman needs a Robin.”

The door shut.

“You think it’s a fake,” Batman deadpanned.

Gordon nodded. “That’s what the evidence points to: an elaborate hoax. But somebody had to have the access to these people, somebody who wouldn’t be noticeable—”

There was a loud, rapid series of knocks on the door. Gordon strode to the window and checked who it was before opening it. “Officer Heymann.” He frowned. “Where’s—”

Heymann was wearing a grave expression. “The kid bolted. I followed him to the roof, and he jumped to the next building over, using one of those things.” He mimed using a grapple gun with one hand.

Batman’s jaw set, and he let out a curse under his breath. Gordon pressed his lips into a thin line. If Old Batman had heard him talk like that—

Batman had a finger to his ear. “Robin.” He waited a second. “Robin, come in.”

There was no reply, not even static.

“Which way?” Batman demanded.

“East, toward the financial district.”

Batman shot to the roof and took off running toward the rising moon, unaware of his unconscious protégé hidden only a few feet away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No editing we die like the impatient writers we are

Damian woke up slowly, the effects of the drugs leaving his mouth dry and his thoughts cloudy. Before trying to move, he listened. It was deathly quiet, nothing like downtown Gotham. They must be underground.

Or they left the city.

Damian didn’t hear anybody else, so risked cracking his eyes open. It was as dark as it was quiet, though as his eyes adjusted he could make out a sliver of light coming from somewhere above him.

The floor was smooth and hard; concrete, he guessed. It was cold to the touch on his bare skin, of which he had more than he had fallen asleep with. His feet, arms, and legs were bare. In a moment of panic, he moved to feel for his domino, but only managed to snag his wrists against whatever was binding them behind his back. Judging by the hard plastic feeling, zipties.

He reached for the lining of his tunic, where he hid his lockpicking kit. And that is when it hit him that the material was rougher than it should be, and lighter than his winter suit. Somebody had changed him out of his costume.

He thought back to before he was drugged. The other officer—Heymann—hadn’t been shocked when he tampered with his suit earlier. It must have been easy for him to remove it.

He furrowed his brow in frustration (and yes, he could still feel his domino on his face, though that led to more questions than answers.) It meant no lock picks. No weapons at all, unless he could find one.

He tried not to think too hard about the implications of somebody undressing him while he was unconscious.

Footsteps. He froze, breath automatically evening out into deep sleep patterns. The heavy steps were coming from above him. They passed overhead, there was a scraping sound, and then silence again.

A basement, then. He could work with that.

He worked his way upright by leaning against the wall behind him. Other than his hands, he was unrestrained. The man was a fool if he thought this would be enough to contain him.

To be fair, the room was still spinning. He hoisted himself to standing with minimal wobbling.

A quick series of piercing, automated chirps chased away the rudimentary plans he was beginning to piece together. The room flooded with artificial light from overhead. Damian ducked his head while his eyes adjusted.

He was so distracted by the headache quickly forming that he missed the footsteps until they were coming down the steps above him.

“Robin? You’re awake?”

Damian shot his head up. The voice was a near-perfect match to his father’s. When he got a look at the figure standing in front of him, he felt his stomach drop. The giant man had donned a replica of the Batman’s suit, cape, and cowl.

“I wasn’t sure how much of the anesthetic to give you, so I wasn’t sure when you’d wake up. Good thing I installed the motion detectors; you’re an hour earlier than my estimation.” As he spoke, he stepped forward.

Damian pushed his fear back behind his bravado, lifting his chest and chin. “What do you want?”

The larger man—Heymann, Damian was almost sure—hummed. “Give me a twirl.”

Damian glowered. “What?”

“A twirl.” He lifted a finger to illustrate the action. “I worked hard on that costume.”

Damian looked down at himself. The heavy material was a red tunic, and his legs donned green scaly short shorts. Most telling was the ‘R’ insignia patched onto (the wrong side of) his chest. He sneered. “It’s shit.”

The kick came as a surprise. Not that he had anywhere to dodge, anyway. It landed squarely in his chest, forcing all of the air out of his lungs.

“Watch your language,” Heymann stated unapologetically.

Damian gasped for breath as he forced himself to stand straight again. “I’ve seen better Halloween costumes sold to children.”

“Oh?”

“Where are the gloves? The boots? The _cape_? You obviously haven’t done your research.”

“Haven’t I?” Heymann took another step forward, close enough now Damian had to look up to maintain eye contact. Too close.

The taller man’s breath ruffled his hair as he spoke. “Four months ago. Crime rates at an all-time low in Gotham. Batman has a new Robin. Then Batman disappears.”

A black-gloved hand gripped his jaw and titled his chin up. “You wouldn’t have anything to do with that, would you?”

Damian growled and snapped his teeth around the glove. It was harder than he would have expected, probably reinforced somehow. Heymann hissed and drew his hand back. “Brat!”

The backhand across his face was swift and brutal, snapping his head to the side. Damian had to blink black spots out of his vision. He could already feel the heat coming off his cheek; it would bruise badly.

Heymann continued, undeterred. “Then Batman came back. But he’s not really Batman, is he?”

Damian kept his mouth shut, if only because he was trying to blink dark spots out of his vision.

“His fighting style is all wrong. He doesn’t face anything straight on. No _balls_.” Spittle landed on Damian’s face. He desperately wished he could wipe it off.

“This new Batman is ineffective. Gotham needs somebody who can throw real punches, make a real difference.”

“And you think that’s supposed to be you?” Damian clenched his teeth. “You think wearing a Deluxe Batman costume from Gotham Express makes you the Batman?”

Heymann grinned. It was nothing like Grayon’s—or his father’s, had he ever grinned in the cowl. It was malicious. “No, but you will.”

He pulled something from underneath his suit, obscured by the cape until he had a hand on Damian’s shoulder, pinning him to the wall. Damian’s eyes widened when he recognized the red loop of fabric for what it was: a _collar_.

He dove to the side, sliding out from beneath Heymann’s hand with minimal burn. His back was to the wall, so he ducked down underneath the man’s left arm.

He only got a few steps before a wave of dizziness overtook him, the drugs still wearing off. A well-placed kick to his back sent his knees _cracking_ onto the hard floor. It wasn’t another second before the collar was looped around his neck. His heart skipped a beat when he heard it _click_ into place.

Two fingers looped between the rough material and his neck and pulled. Damian choked as he was yanked back to his feet. “Too tight?” Heymann asked, still using his dead father’s voice.

Damian turned to glare at the man. “What the _hell_ is this?”

“I asked you a question. Answer me, Robin.”

Damian remained stonily silent, his hands clenched into fists behind him. He ached to kick the man, but knew his bare feet would suffer more damage than the armor he wore.

Heymann used those two fingers to drag him close, so Damian was staring into the whites of his lenses. “Answer me, or I will make it _tighter_.” He punctuated the last word with a twisting tug that left an uncomfortable burning sensation across the back of his neck.

“No, it fits perfectly,” Damian spat. He had no desire to be found strangled to death with a dog collar.

“Good,” Heymann grunted. With a dawning horror Damian watched as he pulled out a chain with his free hand. There was a locking mechanism on one end and a loop on the other.

“Don’t you dare—”

Without preamble Heymann attached the end of the leash to the ring on the front of the collar. He removed his fingers as he did.

Damian reacted to the panic beginning to creep into his throat with instinct, driving his knee up and forward into Heymann’s groin. Predictably, with the hard cup that he hit, the man barely reacted outside of a wince.

Instead, he calmly rolled the slack of the leash in his hand until Damian didn’t have any wiggle room, then pulled back his free arm. Damian flinched, trying to dodge the blow but coming up short. The punch would have sent him to the floor if it weren’t for the collar holding him up. He had to fight the urge to throw up.

“I’m in charge now,” Heymann growled. He dropped Damian to the floor. The man stalked toward the stairs in the corner, unwinding the chain from around his hand as he did. Damian watched, recovering from his protective curl too slowly to stop him.

The banister for the steps was held up by a series of metal poles set into each step, and it was around one of these that Heymann wrapped the end of the leash, where he locked it in place with a padlock. It was about six inches over Damian’s head, were he standing, with enough slack he could lie down or walk a perimeter of about five feet. And the padlock looked cheap. Easy enough to break.

Heymann stepped back to examine his work. “There, that should hold you.”

Damian coughed as he lifted himself to his full height. “We’ll see.”

Heymann, wisely, stepped out of his range of reach. He cocked his head to the side, examining him.

Damian started to raise his chin then thought better of it. The collar left his neck feeling bare.

“You know,” Heymann started, finally dropping his imitation for his own voice, “If you behave, we could be a great team. I’ve seen you fight. You’re brutal.”

Damian barely hid his wince at the word.

“Gotham needs a brutal hand, one that acts swiftly and without remorse.” He opened a pocket on his utility belt and pulled out a knife. Damian fought not to shrink back away from it as Heymann approached him.

“Together, we could rid Gotham of all its vermin.” Heymann reached around him with the knife in an almost pseudo-hug and Damian felt the pressure around his wrists snap.

Without a moment of hesitation, Damian pushed Heymann far back enough he could properly move. Then he aimed for his jugular.

Heymann just chuckled, stepping backward. Damian pulled up short, the force of his attack nearly choking him. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

Damian glared through eyes made watery by the sudden oxygen deprivation. “I will _never_ work with you.”

Heymann put his knife away and made his way up the stairs. “We’ll see.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TFW people tell you your antagonist is totally unlikable and creepy 3:)c  
> Thanks for the comments, guys!

It had been two days.

Two days without a trace of Damian. No flashes of color in the shadows at night. Nobody leaving treats where the cat or the dog or the cow could find them.

Dick had initially assumed Damian’s hot-headedness and desperation to prove himself a hero had spurred him to go after the blackmailer himself, but after so long without contact, the seed of worry in his gut had grown into a stone. Damian was a smart kid, when he stopped to think. He would have figured out the blackmailer was an inside job.

And Dick had thought he was getting through to him; Damian was responding to routine and a constant stream of support with calm. It didn’t make sense for him to run off like that.

Two days.

He rubbed his eyes when they started to sting from staring at the computer so long. He had complied a list of the information he had. Tim had always joked it was like reading Nancy Drew’s notebook, but Dick needed something to focus all the thoughts racing in his head.

**One: Damian was upset about being sent away. He was known for running off on his own to prove himself. He probably went after the blackmailer.**

**Two: He hadn’t been seen since.**

Dick’s eyes traced over that line several times. The tracking devices installed in the Robin suit had gone offline, along with the comms. He almost regretted not implanting one in Damian the way that Bruce had insisted on one in himself, but that was a breach of trust Damian wouldn’t come back from, he was sure.

Batman had ‘interviewed’ the usual suspects and had eyes and ears on the underground. Nobody had seen or heard anything. It meant Robin was being kept on the down-low. Or that the criminals were more scared of the perp than they were of Batman.

Both options were bad.

**Three: The last person to see Robin was Michael Heymann, Gordon’s new bodyguard.**

He had reviewed the security footage of the police precinct. There was footage of Robin slipping up the steps to the roof, and of Heymann following a few seconds after. There were no cameras on the roof, because the relationship between the commissioner and the vigilantes were still, technically, illegal. There was no way to confirm which direction he ran.

All signs pointed toward the blackmailer having Robin. But for all of the bluster in the notes, the criminal had yet to act on any threats. And how would kidnapping Robin help? The kid was too troublesome to be held as ransom. The best Dick could surmise was that Robin had figured out who the blackmailer was and was being held so he wouldn’t reveal the information.

It would be easier to kill a witness. Dick tried not to dwell on that.

He almost wanted to believe the kid was with his mother. At least then, he knew he wasn’t dead. But Talia was anything but subtle; if she had Damian, Dick would know by now.

He had Alfred spread the gossip he had the flu to get away with spending the day in the Batcave, searching radio frequencies and security footage for even a glimpse of the familiar uniform. He spent his nights under the cowl searching the city for signs of his young sidekick.

Two days. The likelihood of finding a victim of kidnapping dropped exponentially after the first twenty-four hours, a fact that echoed in the back of his head while he reread his notes with blurry eyes.

“It is time you got some rest,” Alfred said, stepping behind Dick with a tray of tea.

Dick blinked for the first time in what must have been several minutes. He pushed back from the Batcomputer to rest them on the dim-lit Cave. “I have to be missing something.”

“You must have memorized the footage and reports by now. The Batcomputer can continue searching for Master Damian’s tracking signal and the feed from the security cameras without rest. You cannot.”

Dick smiled unhappily. “You’re right.” He stood, cracking his back (and his hips, and his shoulders, and his knees—he should work more breaks into his investigations). “How did Bruce manage to get anything done?”

Alfred’s mustache twitched. “I drugged his tea. On occasion.”

Dick’s smile got a little more genuine around the edges, but quickly fell again. “I’ll take two hours.”

“Three.”

Dick eyed that tray that Alfred had brought down. He wasn’t Bruce; he knew better than to argue. “Fine. Three hours.” He combed his fingers through his hair. “If the computer finds anything—”

“I will tell you as soon as you wake.” Dick opened his mouth to protest, but Alfred cut him off again. “You will be no use to the boy otherwise.”

Dick snapped his mouth shut. His eyes closed as he nodded in agreement. He turned to leave.

“Master Richard,” Alfred called. “Do not let your worry consume you. Master Damian is too stubborn and prideful to let any scoundrel hurt him.”

Dick wanted to let that comfort him.

But then, that’s what they used to say about Bruce, too.

It was colder in the basement, a fact that crept up on Damian like the chill through his feet. Goosebumps rose along his bare arms and legs. He rubbed heat into the skin idly.

His feet hurt from standing, but the floor was too cold to sit on. His neck was warm and raw where he had tried—unsuccessfully—to remove the collar, then to remove the leash from the collar, then to break the leash, then to remove the leash from the stairs, then to break the stairs. Each step locked shut with one of those small padlocks that he could break through in a matter of minutes with the aid of a lockpick he didn’t have.

By his estimation, it had been at least forty-eight hours since he had been taken. But there were no windows, and Heymann didn’t seem to bring down food on any kind of schedule; there was no way to be sure.

He also surmised, from the pattern of Heymann’s heavy footfalls overhead, that Heymann left for a majority of the day. He assumed that the man was keeping up the ruse of bodyguard with Gordon in order to keep tabs on Batman’s search for Robin.

Damian grit his teeth against the chill that travelled up his spine. He had to get out of here.

The footsteps overhead began moving toward the door to the basement. Damian schooled his shivering into barely-perceptible tremors and rolled his weight into the balls of his feet.

Heymann was dressed in the Batman suit again, for the first time since the first night. In his hands was a paper plate with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, the same thing he had brought—and Damian had refused—the last several times he came down. He wasn’t convinced it was even a new sandwich.

Damian opened his mouth to tell him off, but Heymann lifted a hand in warning. “A deal,” he said. “Eat the sandwich, and I’ll give you more of your outfit.”

Damian sneered. “How is that supposed to benefit me?” He positioned himself so the slack of the leash was behind him, further from Heymann’s reach but far from out of it.

Heymann offered the sandwich to him. Damian barely glanced at it though his stomach protested.

“We are going out tonight. As Batman and Robin.”

“No we aren’t.” His hands curled into fists at his side.

“You have a choice,” Heymann continued, as though Damian hadn’t said anything. “Eat the sandwich, and I will give you gloves, a cape, and shoes. Don’t eat it, and you will receive none of those things. We go out regardless.”

Damian gave the food another look. It looked innocent enough, but there was no telling what the contents of the sandwich were. The risk was too high. Setting his jaw, Damian shook his head. “No.”

Heymann grunted. “Very well.” Damian flinched when the man flicked his wrist, expecting an attack. The sandwich and accompanying plate crashed into the corner. While Damian watched it fall, Heymann pushed him back against the wall beneath the steps. “Face the wall. Head down.”

Ice, unrelated to the cold room, flooded Damian’s veins. He wouldn’t be able to see if he followed orders. The second Heymann removed his hand, Damian stepped away from the wall.

Heymann’s large hand clapped onto the back of his head, pressing his forehead hard into the cold brick. “I won’t tell you again.”

Damian growled, and pushed back against the weight. Heymann gripped his hair and tugged his head to the side, away from Heymann, applying more pressure than Damian could push against.

The tell-tale clacking of Heymann’s utility belt.

Damian clawed at whatever he could reach. The Kevlar held against his ripped nails.

After a second of silence, there was a small _click_ , and the leash fell slack. Damian’s shock and relief lasted just long enough for Heymann to wrap the tail end around his free wrist. He released Damian’s head.

Damian turned. There was a trickle of something warm down the shell of his ear.

Heymann didn’t wait for him to react. He started toward the base of the stairs. “Come on, Robin.”

That’s when he remembered: patrol. Outside. Like _this_.

Damian grit his teeth. “Bite me.”

The backhand wasn’t unexpected, but it made the bruises already blossoming on his face ache. The new metal studs attached to the knuckles of the leather gloves made a horrid cracking sound against his cheekbone.

The burly man in the cowl growled. “That’s not how you treat the Batman.”

“You’re not Batman!”

The collar around his throat constricted threateningly as the man pulled him closer. “The old Batman is gone. I don’t know who it is that took his place, but he’s not the real deal. Gotham needs somebody stronger than Flippy-McGee out there.”

Damian narrowed his eyes. “He’s stronger than you will _ever_ be.”

He almost regretted the words when the man’s mouth twisted into a snarl. It was not his father’s face under the cowl, or Grayson’s, and it was never more obvious than it was now, when the man’s face twisted with uncontrolled _rage_.

“You stubborn little shit,” Heymann hissed. He used the collar and attached leash to drag Damian back to the steps. Damian choked. The man paused at the metal banister, switched hands, and began wrapping the leash around a higher baluster than before. He gave the leash a good tug, making Damian’s breath catch in his throat. Locked it in place.

And then he stepped away.

Damian tried to gulp down air, but even on his toes the leash was almost too short. The collar was flush against his neck, digging into his trachea. He tugged at it with his hands, but couldn’t put enough power behind it to relieve any pressure. Every breath was an audible wheeze.

Heymann began to ascend the steps.

“Stop!” Damian tried to shout. It came out as a raspy whisper. “You can’t leave me like this!”

The hollow steps above him stopped. Damian tried to twist around to see, but moving his head only dug the collar in deeper. He listened instead, as the stair creaked under a weight shift. He almost jumped when a hand landed on his head. It swept his hair back roughly, the seams in the gloves catching strays and plucking them out.

One finger caught a piece in the front and tried to coax it into a curl. Damian had to resist the urge to reach up and break it. He couldn’t afford losing his hands again. Not like this.

Heymann grumbled when the hair didn’t cooperate. “You aren’t the original, I know. But you’d think he could choose somebody a bit more _similar_.” He gave up, patting Damian on the head like he was a dog. “Last chance, you ready to behave?”

“Fuck you!”

Heymann swept another pat across his head before removing his hand. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Master Richard.”

Dick shot to his feet before gaining full awareness. What sleep he had gotten did wonders for his reflexes. “Alfred. Any news?”

The butler had a grave face. “It’s the commissioner.”

Dick’s heart skipped a beat. “Is he—”

Alfred shook his head. “He wants to speak with you.”

Dick nodded absently, already headed toward the door. “I’ll go change.”

“I should have been more specific. He wants to speak to Dick Grayson.”

Dick froze in the doorway. “Why?”

“I’m afraid he could not disclose that information.” Alfred’s voice dropped in volume against some imaginary eavesdropper.

“He said it was urgent.”


	4. Chapter 4

Dick’s mind raced while he thumbed through the contacts on his phone. Gordon wanted to talk to him. It was urgent.

As far as he knew, Gordon didn’t know Batman’s secret identity, but then, what could the call be about?

His knee bounced as the other line rang. He didn’t have to wait long.

“Gordon.”

“Commissioner. It’s Dick Grayson.”

“Dick?”

“Alfred said you wanted to—”

“No, Barbara isn’t here right now. Can I take a message?”

Dick’s momentary confusion was cut off when he heard Gordon’s voice drifting in further from the receiver. “Just a family friend, Michael, I’ll be right back.”

There was shuffling as the cellphone was passed between hands. “Sorry, Dick. This bodyguard business has gotten out of hand.”

“It’s okay. I want you to be safe.”

There was a long pause where neither of them spoke. Dick opened his mouth to say something else, but Gordon cut him off. “Let me get something to write that down with.”

Dick had to stand up. Gordon wouldn’t be keeping up the ruse unless he was worried about the line being monitored. Which meant something was up. Maybe this was an Officer Grayson issue; he hadn’t carried the badge since returning to Gotham, but he knew that the commissioner trusted him. “Tell Babs her package came here on accident. Can she come pick it up?” _Can you come here?_

“No, I’m worried about her safety.” _I’m worried about my safety_.

“Can I send it to her?” _Should I come?_

“No, don’t worry about it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Actually, since I’ve got you on the phone, could you do me a favor?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Babs’ friend, Bridgette?”

Dick paused in his pacing. _Batman?_ Bruce was known to fund Batman through Wayne Industries, what leap was it to assume he could get a message to the vigilante? “The one who stays up all night?”

Gordon’s voice tightened a bit. “That’s the one.”

Dick’s eyebrows drew in. “Are you worried about her?”

Gordon huffed a laugh. “She can take care of herself. She has Barbara’s camera, though. I don’t want Babs going out right now, but she needs the camera for a project with the library. Any chance you could pick it up for her?”

“You want me to meet Bridgette?”

“Yes, and let her know that Babs wants to talk to her.” _I need to talk to Batman_.

Dick’s eyes widened. “Have you tried calling her? I have her number.” _Why don’t you use the signal?_

“Babs has been trying to reach her, but her cell is broken. The calls keep getting dropped. I can’t use mine because of the. . . _situation_ here at the precinct.”

Dick was right. Something was up.

He began making his way toward the Cave. “I’ll try to talk to her, but no promises.”

“I know; she’s stubborn and flighty.”

A wry grin broke across Dick’s face. Bruce had made quite a reputation for himself. “No kidding. Where should I meet her?”

“8900 Poplar Way. She’s usually there around 10?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks, Dick. I owe you one.”

* * *

It had to have been more than an hour.

Damian’s legs shook. His throat burned. His toes throbbed where he had so much weight resting on them.

It was completely dark. He couldn’t move enough to set off the motion detectors.

With a heave, he used what strength he could to hoist himself up using the chain above him. Again. It only granted momentary relief. His oxygen-deprived fingers lost their grip and sent him sliding down onto his toes again too soon.

His eyes hadn’t stopped watering, and it was making the old spirit gum itch against his face. He didn’t dare rip it off; it would mean releasing his hold on the chain and—

Without his consent, his right leg buckled.

The collar—the _noose_ —pulled taught, cutting short Damian’s wheeze. In his surprise, he lost his footing, and for a terrifying second he hung by his neck.

He kicked with his left leg until he found the floor again.

He began to shake for reasons beyond the cold or the fatigue.

Damian was getting scared.

His legs were cramping, and what was painful before was excruciating now. It was only a matter of time before he lost control.

The door opened, light flooding the small room. The light made his eyes water harder, and he felt the edge of his domino break loose from his skin. Cold tears dripped out.

“I’m back,” Heymann announced, unnecessarily. He stopped halfway down the steps to pat Damian’s sweat-soaked hair. “Are you ready to listen now?”

Damian couldn’t bring himself to answer. He gasped for each shallow sip of air.

The leash suddenly got shorter, forcing Damian to hold on with all of his dwindling strength. “Answer me.”

“Yes,” Damian immediately whispered. Another tear slipped out, warm this time.

Heymann didn’t release the pressure. “Yes _sir_.”

The bottom half of the domino had disconnected. Damian’s fingers slackened. “Yes, sir,” he barely breathed.

Heymann lowered him. Back to his toes. “I thought so.”

Damian tried to stop his shaking as he listened to the large man descend the steps. It was harder than it had been before. Heymann approached him slowly, not at all perturbed by Damian’s heels beginning to lower against his will.

“No, you can’t get out that easily,” he said. He pulled the bucket from the corner and capsized it, lifting Damian so he stood on top.

The pressure gone, Damian lowered his burning arms. He coughed, hard and deep and long. His legs wanted to give out again, but he planted his weight in his heels. The leash was still short enough to choke him if he crouched.

Heymann raised a hand. Damian flinched back, but the man’s hands were slow and soft as they traced up his cheek, following the tear tracks there. He fingered the edge of the domino where it had pulled loose. Even the small push he made caused it to pull off more. He clicked his tongue. “No, that won’t do.”

Before Damian could react, he gripped the bottom and ripped the mask off.

Damian hissed at the feeling. He shut his eyes reflexively and turned away.

Heymann laughed. “Come on, let me see those eyes,” he coaxed. He pulled on Damian’s shoulder, causing the bucket to tilt before slamming back down.

“No,” Damian said. His own voice sounded foreign to him. Hoarse. Quiet.

Heymann’s hand slid down to Damian’s collar. It constricted, just slightly, as he slipped two fingers beneath. It was enough to make Damian’s breath hitch in fear. “No?” Heymann repeated.

Damian’s heart was speeding up. “I can’t be Robin without my mask,” he rushed to explain. “I can’t help Batman—I can’t help you without it.”

Heymann’s fingers released his collar with a hum. “I guess you’re right. I’ll be right back.”

He left. Damian didn’t open his eyes until he heard the door shut and lock again. He irritably rubbed away the tears where they were drying on his face, and that’s when he saw the dried blood on his hands, where he had worn through callouses trying to hold the chain. He tutted half-heartedly at them.

He was exhausted. His legs felt like jelly, his heart was beating too fast. Now that he wasn’t in immediate danger of suffocating, his stomach had regained interest in the sandwich still lying in the corner. But he could do nothing but stand on the bucket while he waited.

Heymann returned, and Damian didn’t risk the man seeing his face to watch as he approached. He heard old knees creak as the man dropped to a crouch in front of him. Something uncapped—adhesive? “Face me, kid.”

Damian shook his head. “I’ll do it.” He held a hand out behind him blindly. Heymann grunted, and something a little too heavy fell in his hand. “This isn’t my mask,” Damian said.

“It’s an improved one. You can’t beat the original.”

Damian brought it in front of him so he could examine it. It was a simple shape, round edges just large enough to cover his eyes and brows. He recognized it from the Robin display. It looked like Grayson’s, if Grayson’s had been made of craft foam and liquid latex.

“Hurry up; the glue dries fast.”

Damian tutted and raised it to his face. The glue was cold; thinner than he would like. He suspected it wasn’t prosthetic adhesive.

At least the proper lenses were in the eyeholes. They looked like they had been ripped from his domino.

He turned to face Heymann. The man grinned hungrily. “Perfect,” he mumbled.

The glue burned slightly where it was attached. Damian ignored it.

Heymann appraised him for a longer time than was probably necessary. “Smile.”

Damian didn’t have enough saliva to spit.

“The old Robin smiled. You’re too angry.”

There was fire in his stomach. “I’ll smile when I kill you,” he said, lowly.

“Robin doesn’t kill,” Heymann shrugged. His face dropped into something more serious. Damian startled when he began using his father’s voice again, saying, “Turn around, face the wall.”

This time, he complied after only a brief hesitation. He listened while Heymann fished the key from his utility belt. The leash fell slack, only to tighten again as he wrapped the length around his wrist. There was a soft _snap_ as he locked it in place.

“Let’s go.”

* * *

“Gordon,” Batman greeted.

The commissioner twisted around with relief. “Batman, you got my message.”

Batman nodded. “Why here?”

They stood on the deck on the fifth story of an empty apartment. The wind carried the smell of Gotham Harbor, only a few streets away.

Gordon was alone; no bodyguard.

“I don’t know who I can trust. I needed to talk to you, in private.”

Batman stayed quiet. Gordon pulled a file from beneath his trench coat. “I have reason to believe that our blackmailer works with the police.”

Batman accepted to proffered file. “Evidence?”

“Everything I have is there.” Gordon shook his head. “I know it’s not a lot, but it’s hard to investigate with people breathing down your neck.”

He took a drag from his cigarette, glancing around. His eyes softened. “Still no sign of Robin?”

Dick paused; Batman straightened his posture. He tapped the file once in his hands. “I’ll look into this.”

Gordon opened his mouth to say something else, but never got the words out.

A building down the street shot up in flames.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't say it enough: thank you, everyone for your kind words! (Believe it or not, I like Damian, too. I just express it differently .-.)

Robin’s numb feet hit a patch of ice and sent him skidding toward the lip of the roof. Damian grabbed the leash just in time for Heymann to reflexively yank back when it pulled taught, minimizing further damage to his already throbbing neck.

“Watch it,” Heymann growled. He looped the leash around his wrist again, drawing Damian in closer.

He fought to stay as far as he could from the pseudo-vigilante. Heymann liked to grab him and pull him along when he stumbled within reach. He had bruises in the shape of fingers spotting his bare arms already.

He stumbled often.

“If you gave me _shoes—_ ” he whispered. He wanted to shout, but was afraid of giving away the chattering of his teeth. Heymann had stayed true to his threat; he was dragging Robin in only a short-sleeved tunic and scaly shorts. No cape, no gloves, and no _shoes_. What the frozen metal rooftops and asphalt didn’t steal from below, the wind stole from his core.

He dipped his head against another gust, returning his hands to his armpits in an attempt to save his fingers. Chills wracked his small frame.

“You made that choice. You should have listened,” Heymann said without a hint of apology. “Hurry up.” He accompanied the demand with a tug on the leash.

Damian hissed. “What is anybody doing at the docks in this weather, anyway?”

Heymann looked down at him, assessing. “How?”

Damian smirked. (Or, he thought he smirked. His face was too numb to be sure.) Heymann had refused to tell him where they were going after he had been released from the trunk of his car, so Damian had been putting what cognitive resources he wasn’t devoting to surviving toward spite. “I’m a _detective_.”

“You’re a distraction.”

Damian’s smirk disappeared.

Heymann leaned over the lip of the roof, watching for observers. “Stay close. We’re almost there.” He located the fire escape and started to climb down.

“There’s a f-faster way,” Damian continued, heedless of Heymann’s warning look to stay quiet. The cold was beginning to affect his speech.

“I like my way,” Heymann grumbled.

“It’s-s predic-dictable.” Heymann knew the city as a cop in a patrol car. He followed roads: one-way streets, the shortcuts past the worst traffic. None of which hindered vigilantes running across rooftops. Heymann was inefficient.

“I don’t need stealth.”

Suddenly the words ‘distraction,’ took on a new meaning. A chill ran up Damian’s spine. “Th-then you’re a f-f-fool.”

Heymann stopped abruptly, causing Damian to run into him. The larger man wrapped up the rest of the slack in the leash. He drew his hand back. Damian pulled back abruptly in a full-body cringe. Heymann kept him still, not moving his hand. “Do you know why you’re being punished?”

Damian narrowed his eyes. Mother would be disappointed in him. He unfolded his quivering form. “Just do it-t.”

 _Crack!_ “You didn’t answer my question.”

_Crack!_

A sound of pain escaped.

Heymann’s grin was all teeth. “You questioned Batman.”

Damian tasted blood in his mouth. Heymann’s hand unwinding a short amount of leash was out of focus. He fell to a knee.

“No. Up. We’re going.” Heymann grabbed his arm again. Damian was too disoriented to resist as Heymann practically dragged him down an alleyway and up a different fire escape. Their footsteps were loud—Heymann really wasn’t trying to hide his approach.

Heymann dropped Robin when they reached the opposite side of the roof of the industrial building. Damian’s vision still hadn’t focused. He tried to remain standing, but Heymann just huffed in disgust and pressed him lower, until he was leaning against the high ledge.

“Stay,” he demanded.

“Wha. . . “ Damian trailed off. Then, screwing his face up in concentration, tried again. “What k-kind of Robin am I if I can’t even he-help lookout?”

A voice drifted from the ground below. “Did you hear something?”

Damian’s eyes widened. They hadn’t run across anybody yet, presumably because of the bitter cold. This was his chance. He opened his mouth to shout down for help, or at least warn Heymann’s victims.

Heymann clamped a hand around his mouth before he could get a sound out. Damian growled and bit at the hand again, but his teeth barely left indents in the gloves.

“Nah, Ryan. It’s probably some birds. You know how they get this time of year.” The voices faded as they got further away.

Heymann bent double to glare at Robin. “If you try to pull something like that again, I will lock this leash around the fence by the docks and go back for a gag.”

He shuddered involuntarily.

“What would kill you first?” Heymann mused. “The cold? Or the rogues that have a grudge against the Bats?”

Damian couldn’t respond past a vehement scowl; Heymann hadn’t removed his hand.

“This is how tonight will go down,” he whispered. “There’s a drug trade happening in the warehouse by that ship over there.” He pointed with two fingers over Damian’s shoulder. “We are going to stop it.”

He released his hold on Damian’s mouth. “Capiche?”

Damian knew what he wanted: ‘Yes, sir.’ He also knew he wouldn’t say it. “I won’t help y-you,” he whispered. Before Heymann could follow through with the backhand he was preparing, he tacked on, “but I wo-won’t interfere.”

“If you don’t help me, I’ll leave you—”

“L-l-locked on the fence, I heard.” Damian sneered. Brave words to hide behind. “You wouldn’t bring me here if you d-didn’t need my help to do it-t. And who’s to say I won’t turn on you, anyw-way?” It was a risky move, suggesting his own continuous subordination. Then again, at this point there was a good chance his face would be so numb he couldn’t feel anything anyway.

Heymann lowered his fist. Tilted his hand to the side. “You want a treat.”

Damian scowled. “No.”

“If you do this, I’ll give you the rest of your costume.”

It was a paltry gift, and Heymann knew it. He also knew that Damian’s toes were beginning to turn blue.

Damian was too conflicted to answer. Heymann took it as a refusal, so flashed a sleazy smile and added, “I’ll put a heater in the basement.”

Damian stayed quiet, resisting the urge to break Heyman’s nose and make a run for it. He still didn’t know how to unlock the collar.

Heymann’s face twisted in contempt. “And if you don’t participate, I’ll leave you on the fence.”

Damian’s hands clenched into weak fists. “Okay,” he whispered. “But I ha-have lines I won’t-t-t cross.”

“You will assist me in bringing justice to those criminals in the way I see fit. Or the deal is off.”

Damian bit his lip. He had no doubts about what ‘the way I see fit’ meant. Selling his redemption for a warm night?

He couldn’t unclench his fingers.

“Fine.”

Maybe he wasn’t ever meant to be Robin.

“Let’s g-get this over with.”

* * *

They weren’t expecting them. For all that Heymann refused to practice stealth, the criminals were surprised when Batman and Robin burst through the door.

Robin’s eyes adjusted slowly to the light. Too slowly. The perps didn’t look—

“I’ll give you one chance to turn yourselves over.”

The small crowd in the room was still, until somebody gasped, “Wait, you’re not—”

“Robin.” Damian snapped to attention, and hated himself for it. It was his father’s voice. It was habit.

“Attack.”

Something in Damian’s gut lurched at the order. Heymann dropped the leash slack; only the padlock around his wrist kept Damian tethered to him. Made sure he couldn’t escape.

“Oh my god, is that—?”

“GO!” Heymann bellowed. He accompanied it with a shove, and Damian found himself in the middle of a quickly-panicking crowd of people.

Somebody threw a glass bottle at Heymann; Damian ducked out of the way. He never saw if it landed, because the movement triggered chaos.

Somebody rushed toward him, and Damian instinctively deflected a sloppy punch. Something his eyes couldn’t track was hurled at him from the side. He caught it and threw it into the man behind him, who was approaching Heymann. The movement knocked Damian off balance and sent him spinning into the wall.

Somebody screamed. Damian snapped his attention toward the source, and in the time it took his eyes to focus everyone had moved again.

Suddenly, he was yanked down by his neck. He coughed against the pressure, but it began to suck him back into the crowd. Damian’s hands flew to the leash, and he pulled it back until he found a woman, who froze when she saw who was on the other side.

Damian was sick of being yanked around. Something snapped. He lunged.

Everything was a blur. He blinked, and she was on the floor and he crouched over her with sore knuckles. She was quiet.

His blood went cold. Had he—no, there was a breath.

He snuck a peak behind him at the whirlwind of action. The end of his leash—not “his;” _the_ — disappeared into the fray.

He didn’t see Heymann anywhere.

He bent over her unconscious body to hide what he was doing. Pockets, pockets—empty. He ran shaking hands through her long hair next.

There had to be a pin somewhere.

The collar pressed against his throat again; this time with an amount of force that could only come from Heymann. Damian scrambled backward until his back hit Heymann’s heavily-armored side.

The larger man clasped one large hand onto Damian’s shoulder. “Good job, Robin.” Forcibly turned him to survey the room.

Seven bodies lying still on the floor. More than one bloodied. Damian turned to each dully—one of his eyes was beginning to swell shut. But every criminal—every victim looked young. Early twenties? Late teens? “This isn’t right.”

The hand on his shoulder squeezed. “It is justice.”

“Batman wouldn’t—”

Heymann spun him around with the grip on his shoulders. “Questioning me, Robin?”

Damian swallowed dryly.

“That’s what I thought.” When he released his grip, Damian sank to the floor. He was warm enough his fingers and toes burned from new blood. One of his ankles twinged with pain when he shifted weight off it.

“Come. We’re done here.” He had scarcely gotten to the floor before Heymann was wrapping the leash back around his wrist. When he didn’t immediately respond, Heymann turned toward the door. “You don’t want to be here when I leave.”

He tiredly got to his feet—his ankle protesting—and followed Heymann out. Climbing up the fire escape took longer than Damian would have liked to admit. He was too tired to shiver.

He thought about the woman; maybe a teenager. He had searched her pockets. Never found any drugs, or the money they would be associated with. No track marks, on any of them.

He had been played.

“Who were those people?” he asked.

Heymann startled at the noise; he had been too quiet. “None of your concern.”

Damian shuddered.

Heymann smiled, mistaking the reason. “Still cold, Robin?” With too much enthusiasm, he fiddled with his utility belt until he found what he was looking for: a remote control. “This should help.” He pressed the button.

The building behind them erupted into flames.

* * *

Batman finished dragging the last two bodies out with seconds to spare. The building collapsed in on itself, spewing heat and sparks from the crevices left.

Dick drew up short on his way back. Nobody would have survived that.

“The building was abandoned.” Gordon was breathing hard as he came around the corner. “It was set for demolition in a few weeks.”

Assured he was done, Batman turned to the victim who wasn’t breathing. The oldest of the group, maybe 21 years old, if that. She had no pulse. He started compressions.

“What happened?” came a groan from behind him.

“Young man, what’s your name?” Gordon asked.

The girl’s heart began beating on her own. Out of the woods. Batman stood again. “An ambulance is on its way.”

“Batman?”

Dick paused.

The man—no, he was younger than that. The _boy_ talking to Gordon had tilted his head toward the vigilante. “I think I saw Robin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I worry the fight feels rushed, but Damian is concussed and exhausted so -_(0u0)_-


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year, everyone!  
> Sorry for taking so long to update; I got sick, went out of town, and then wrestled with pacing for a few days. It has been quite the experience. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Robin had to step back when the force wave of the explosion hit them. The first arc of flames licked all the way up the side of the building. With a renewed sense of urgency, Robin lunged toward it.

The collar pulled taught. He choked.

His numb feet scrabbled for purchase on icy rooftop, but Heymann too easily reigned him in. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Damian clawed weakly at the Kevlar. “We have to help them!” His voice was still tight and raspy, but he was sure the growl was audible enough to convey his determination.

Heymann was shaking his head, rolling the leash tighter. “This is justice.”

Damian dug his heels in and tugged against his collar sluggishly. It was no use; Heymann dragged him closer and closer until he caught his fingers in the collar’s slack. In a desperate move, Damian chopped at his windpipe. Too slow, too short.

Too sloppy to do any damage, anyway.

Heymann growled and pushed him back to arm’s reach.

Damian let loose a yell of frustration. He could feel the heat of the fire at his back. “Batman doesn’t _kill_!”

“ _That_ is exactly his problem.”

“It’s not honorable! They were _unconscious_!”

Heymann’s frown deepened. “I warned you, Robin. _Don’t question me!_ ” He drew back his arm.

The first hit snapped his head to the side, which is when a dark shadow caught the edge of his vision. Headed toward the burning building. It was accompanied by the quiet but recognizable _fwtttt_ of the grapple gun recoil.

His eyes widened. “Batman?”

Heymann’s fist landed on his temple.

Everything went black.

* * *

He woke up slowly. It was dark, so at first he thought he was back in the basement. But, no: the floor was moving, and not nearly cold enough. They hadn’t made it back yet; he was still in the trunk of Heymann’s car.

The man hadn’t bothered to restrain his hands behind his back this time, but as he tried to move he realized it didn’t matter. Everything hurt.

His ankle was throbbing where he had twisted it earlier. The bruises on his arms from Heymann’s grabby hands were barely outdone by those blossoming on his torso from the fight earlier. And his face—he could only get one eye open. There was a knot on his temple.

None of it compared to the pain in his neck.

He was tempted to fall back asleep. But he didn’t have much time.

No blindfold meant that there was a window, after Heymann opened the trunk, when his leash, eyes, hands, and feet were free, while outside. It was his best bet for an escape attempt, especially if Heymann assumed he would be asleep.

He moved quickly but carefully to minimize sound. His hands crept to the hem of his shorts, where he had hidden the hairpins he had found in the woman’s hair.

His stomach turned at the thought. She was probably dead, now.

He had to twist the collar around so he could reach it properly, and clenched his teeth against the soft sounds that wanted to escape when it rubbed against the warm, chafed skin.

The car slowed, and Damian froze. Not a second later, his weight was pitching to one side; they must have been at an intersection.

His bent the hairpin into shape using his teeth. His fingers were still stiff from the cold, so it took a few tries to get the pin into the lock.

The car stopped.

Damian sped up his movements. He heard the engine cut off, and then Heymann’s door shut. The lock wasn’t budging. Damian gave it a last desperate, frustrated tug before tucking away the pin again.

The trunk opened. Heymann frowned down at him. “You’re awake.”

Damian didn’t even look at him. He was studying the empty space behind him. They were parked behind an old brick building. Judging by the light direction and intensity, it was an alley. Damian almost thought he recognized it.

Now or never.

He pulled his knees up hard and fast, hitting Heymann in the face where he had been leaning over him. Damian followed it with a quick kick to the larger man’s chest, sending him back just enough he could roll over the lip of the trunk and onto the pavement.

He landed on the concrete hard, underestimating the height of the vehicle or overestimating his dwindling strength. The end of his leash followed him out and landed on his back. He grabbed it as he scrambled under the car.

Something caught his foot and jerked him back. He kicked with his other foot—barely avoided that one being snatched, too—and threw his heel _down_ into the hand wrapped around his ankle. It released, and he pulled his knees up and out of reach.

From beneath the car, he had a three-sixty view of the alley they were in. The trunk faced a dead end, but Damian spotted a dumpster about a dozen yards ahead. It was low enough he could scale it, and use it to reach the balcony above. Heymann hadn’t demonstrated any kind of parkour capabilities; if Robin could get away, Batman wouldn’t be able to follow.

The car above him rocked. Damian swept his gaze around the exterior of the car, looking for a clue as to where the large man would land. After several seconds, the car stilled.

It was quiet. Subconsciously, he pulled his limbs in tighter, so there would be nothing to grab.

Something skittered off to the left, and Damian shot it a quick assessing glance. When he determined it was nothing, he looked back ahead. He jumped when Heymann’s cowl filled his narrow view.

“Once chance, Robin.” Fog billowed out of his mouth, and Damian had the absurd thought he was hiding from an angry Smaug.

“Come out, or I’ll come get you.” The face disappeared again, replaced by black combat boots. The car rocked with the weight shift.

His heart thudding in his chest, Damian gauged his best opening. There was glass bottle to his left, and he wrapped his fingers around the freezing neck hard enough they went white.

“I warned you.” There was a _pop_ and he watched with confusion as a cylinder began to roll under the car. Without warning, it began to hiss, smoke billowing out not a second later. Damian got a lungful of it before catching his bearings and rolling out from under the car.

“Gotcha!” Heymann grabbed the hand holding his leash. Damian blindly struck out with the bottle, and was met with something soft. “Aargh!”

The bottle shattered.

He used the distraction to rise on unsteady feet, coughing all the way. Leash clenched in his hand, he stumbled toward the wall lining the alley. Heymann was busy picking pieces of glass from his chin. Steeling himself with a deep breath, Damian sprint-limped toward the dumpster. The wall was there to steady him when black ice stole his traction. When he was close enough to the dumpster, he used his momentum to help him jump—

Something large and heavy and dark fell over him, blocking his sight. The cape.

He couldn’t control his momentum, sending him clanging into the apparently empty dumpster. Strong hands wrapped around his middle, pinning his arms to his sides, and lifted. Damian writhed in his grip, kicking his cold feet backward until they met something solid.

“You little shit,” Heymann whispered into his ear. “Trying to escape?”

His breathing came shallower as they began moving away from the light. The slack in the chain leash dragged on the ground behind them. The rattles echoed off the alley walls.

Too soon, a door slid open and then shut behind them. A lock clacked. He was trapped inside again.

“I should punish you for that.”

Damian’s breath caught. He imagined being tied to that staircase again, for another hour or two, with his bad ankle and sore neck and exhaustion. Even he had to admit he wouldn’t last long. He used his free hand to beat back against the goliath behind him. “Let me go!”

The air changed when they passed the threshold into the basement. Colder, damper. He began to kick harder. His feet connected with armor that made dull noises as they absorbed the shock.

They reached the bottom of the basement stairs. Heymann shushed him and ran a hand over his head. It settled around his throat. Squeezed just enough to make his intentions clear. “Behave, Robin.”

With great effort, Damian stopped struggling. He couldn’t stop his shaking. His breaths came short and shallow.

Heymann set him down heavily on his feet. Damian’s knees wouldn’t support him; he collapsed onto the cold floor.

He flinched when the cape was whipped away. “Give me the leash.”

Damian’s grip tightened on the chain, pulling it closer into his chest. He said nothing.

“Give me the leash or the punishment will be worse.”

Damian bit his tongue until he tasted blood. Slowly, he raised his arm. Heymann still had to pry his fingers away from it.

“Good boy.”

Damian shuddered when the weight of the chain was gone. Heymann dragged the length across the room to the steps. To his surprise, it was locked low enough he didn’t even have to move.

Heymann slipped the cowl back, revealing the red splotches where Damian’s knees had made contact. He crouched down in front of Damian, his massive frame towering over him. “Now, here are our choices.” Beads of blood fell off his sliced chin as his spoke. “I should punish you for your disobedience tonight, and for your escape attempt.”

He grabbed Damian’s chin and lifted it up. “That was unacceptable behavior from Robin, do you understand?”

Damian swallowed. He clenched his hands into fists at his side in an attempt to stop the tremors.

Heymann shook him. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

A slow grin spread across Heymann’s face. “Very good. Our second choice is that I let it slide because of your exhaustion.”

Damian blinked with his good eye.

“For all of your insubordination, you did well tonight. I wouldn’t have been able to finish that fight by myself.”

His stomach rolled. _Brutal_ , Heymann had called him. It was true, wasn’t it?

“And I did promise you a reward.” The hand on his chin brushed upward, and Heymann ran his thumb through the congealing blood on Damian’s brow. “I’ll overlook the last few minutes if you ask nicely.”

Damian’s jaw clenched. He should have expected it; it was simple manipulation. Step three of seven to inducing Stockholm Syndrome.

He released his clenched fists. There were crescents of pressure left in his otherwise-numb palms. Knowing it was manipulation meant it wouldn’t work, right? “Please.”

“Please, what?”

“Please give me the rest of my costume.”

“Sir.”

“Sir.” Damian couldn’t make eye contact. He stared at the basement steps. There was still an upturned bucket underneath them. “Please.”

“Is that really all you want? Your costume, no forgiveness?”

Damian grit his teeth. He could still taste blood. “Please forgive me, sir.”

Heymann had the audacity to hesitate in answering. “Do you promise to be good?”

Damian looked back up, made eye contact. He weighed the words on his tongue. ‘Good’ was a subjective term, but he knew what Heymann meant. He licked his lips.

“No.”

The word made Heymann step back. “No?”

“I won’t make a promise I can’t keep.”

Heymann’s face darkened. “You intend to continue disobeying me.”

Damian shrunk away at the change in tone. Heymann stood, and suddenly he was being backed into the culvert beneath the stairs. “Then we will just have to make sure you can’t.”

* * *

Gordon wasn’t kidding; there was hardly any evidence supporting his theory.

Dick flipped the printout of one of the officers to finish reading the biography on the back. Jamie Mulligan had a mortgage to pay off and, according to peer reviews, was bossy. It checked two of the things he and the commissioner had discovered while profiling their perp: authority issues and money troubles. But the officer hadn’t been to work in several weeks due to a broken foot. Unless he had an accomplice, it was unlikely he had been the one threatening their victims.

Dick’s frown tightened. It was equally unlikely he would be able to keep Damian for so long. Lord knew he had enough trouble herding the kid himself, and he had Bat-training to help him.

He brushed the profile aside to look at the other suspects. Most of them were men and women just desperate enough to try and blackmail powerful people. But, looking at their pictures, Dick wasn’t inspired. Any one of them could have been their blackmailer, but none of them fit the profile of a kidnapper; half of them had kids of their own.

He closed the file with a sigh. Gordon wasn’t considering the fact that Robin was missing.

Dick pulled up his own investigation on the Batcomputer. His profile was more specific than Gordon’s: disillusioned with authority, seeking money—but not for public reasons—and no regular contact with immediate family. Nothing about the blackmail seemed desperate; it was the work of somebody who knew the ins-and-outs of the games they were playing.

When he reached over for his coffee, his hand knocked the mug over instead of wrapping around the handle. He cursed, saving the file from the spreading flood of lukewarm caffeine. In the process, several papers slid out and fluttered to the floor.

One caught his eye.

It was a familiar face. Full ruddy cheeks and narrow eyes. Built like a bull, if he remembered correctly.

Michael Heymann, 41 years old. Officer for nearly twenty years, transferred to Gotham from Allenwood fifteen years ago. He was currently on Commissioner Gordon’s security rotation; scheduled as his personal guard starting tomorrow at 3 pm.

His record was squeaky clean; not a single psych eval or routine skills check failed. He put away a fair amount of criminals each year, with no reports of excessive violence and no recorded mistrial.

But he was there, the night Robin disappeared. He was the last to see him.

Richard Grayson was due for a visit.


	7. Chapter 7

Dick Grayson had not visited the Gotham police precinct since he was younger. Well, his civilian identity hadn’t. That was his excuse for today’s visit.

He knocked on the commissioner’s door lightly and waited a few beats. Nobody answered—not even the blinds shifted—so he tried the handle. It was locked. He frowned, then tossed casual glances down either side of the hallway. Nobody was in sight. He already knew the camera angles in this part of the building, so it was with great confidence that he leaned against the door to hide the way he slid his lockpicks in.

He tapped his foot impatiently, just in case.

The lock turned with a _clunk_ and he slipped inside Gordon’s office. It was messier than it had been the last time Batman had visited: empty coffee mugs strewn about, file upon file of documents piles haphazardly on any available empty space. Absently, he fingered the micro cameras in his pocket. He smiled without humor; it would be easy to hide them.

One went between dusty tomes on his bookshelf that looked like they hadn’t been touched since the nineties. Another in the light fixture. Another hidden behind the frame of one of his awards, placed so it faced the office door. He scattered five cameras throughout the room, in a way he knew they wouldn’t be spotted.

While he worked, he took note of the two microphones hidden in the lampshade and under the office chair. They were cheap, and the data had to be collected rather than remotely accessed. He had no doubt that Gordon knew about them, but that he hadn’t been the ones to place them. No wonder he had been so paranoid lately.

Satisfied that every angle was covered, he sat heavily in Gordon’s chair, eyeing his laptop.

The screen was black, but he didn’t need to be logged in to get the access he needed. He inserted the thumbdrive with his software and watched as it automatically began to download. It was nothing invasive; every time somebody turned on the laptop screen it would take a picture using the camera and send it to the Batcave. It was just a precaution; he knew Gordon was a careful man. But with the blackmailer and the mole inside the precinct, he could never be too careful. The computer had access to all of the precinct’s information, all of the criminal records, and most other information relevant to Gotham’s underworld.

Dick had just pocketed the thumbdrive when the door opened. Gordon jumped when he saw Grayson sitting in his chair.

“Dick! What are you doing here?”

“I heard about the blackmailer. I wanted to check on you myself.” He wiggled around in the chair and huffed. “And it looks like I was right; somebody has replaced your chair with a torture device.”

Gordon shook his head, smiling softly. “I couldn’t risk losing another one to children’s games.”

Dick smiled wryly. “It spun the fastest.”

“You’ll notice this one doesn’t spin at all.” Gordon settled in the other chair with a sigh. “It _does_ have lumbar support.”

Dick leaned over the desk, snapping the laptop shut when it confirmed the installation was successful. “Mister Gordon, you’re not getting old?”

Gordon shook his head wearily. “This job tends to age people.”

Dick’s grin faded into something more serious. “No offense, but that’s why I’m here. I saw the news this morning—I’m surprised you don’t have a bodyguard.”

Gordon gave him a thin smile. “I do. He’s late.”

“Oh?” Dick didn’t bother to hide his disdain. The bodyguard scheduled to begin next was the one he had really come to visit, and he was already learning not to like the man. “Lucky I’m not a criminal, huh?”

They both looked over when the door to the office slammed open. “Who are you? Step away from the commissioner!”

Gordon jumped when he registered the gun held in the large man’s hands. “Michael! Put that thing down!”

Dick put his hands up in the universal ‘don’t shoot’ sign. “Dick Grayson. Family friend.”

Michael raised an eyebrow, tilting his chin toward Gordon in question.

“He’s telling the truth; one of Bab’s friends. Wayne’s eldest. Put the gun away before you hurt somebody.”

Michael glared, almost in warning, but put the gun back in his holster. “Can’t be too careful.” He appraised Dick, who was still sitting in the non-spinning office chair. “You seem awfully calm for a rich boy.”

“It’s not my first time at the hot end of a gun.” Dick shrugged. “When people get trigger-happy, it’s best to remain calm.”

Michael sneered. “Trigger happy?”

“Not you, of course. You’re just doing your job.”

Gordon intervened before the loaded words Dick was throwing could be caught. “He was an officer in Bludhaven.”

“ _And_ I was a frequent target for kidnapping. Usually those guns weren’t loaded, though.” Dick stood and outstretched his hand. “Nice to meet you, Officer—?”

“Heymann. Michael Heymann,” he grumbled. Ignoring Dick’s hand, he looked to Gordon, “I thought I said no visitors?”

It was Gordon’s turn to shrug, though the movement was more intended to mask the flash of heat behind his eyes. “You also said to go nowhere alone, and since you were late. . . what happened to your chin?”

Michael raised a hand to rub at the bandage coving the bottom half of his face. “Cut myself shaving.”

Dick was standing behind Michael’s immediate line of sight, so he didn’t bother hiding the way he was staring at the stubble along his jaw. He doubted Gordon missed it, either. “Must have been a nasty cut for that big a bandage.”

Michael shot him a glare. “Yes.” The big man changed his posture so he was looking down toward Dick. “Sorry to cut your visit short.” He didn’t sound sorry at all.

Dick’s grin was tight. “The press released a story about a blackmailer this morning. I just wanted to make sure everyone was okay.”

Michael frowned. “He’s safe.”

“I know.” Dick stood in the doorway and appraised the larger man. “Can’t get much safer than a personal escort by _Batman_.”

Gordon shot a warning look at him over Michael’s shoulder. Michael didn’t notice; his eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

Dick leaned on the doorframe in faux nonchalance. Michael didn’t look like he was buying it. “It was on the news this morning. There was a fire last night—they suspect an arsonist—and Batman was seen on the scene with the commissioner.” Dick shrugged. “I don’t know why else they would be working together.”

Michael huffed, turning toward the commissioner. “I told you not to let Batman get involved. Now he’s going around blowing stuff up.”

“Woah. You think Batman is the arsonist?”

Michael stood to his full height. “I just got back from the hospital. Two of the fire’s victims last night are awake, and I was called in to do the interviews.”

Gordon looked genuinely confused. “Why wasn’t I notified of this?”

Michael managed to look arrogant despite the band-aid. “It wasn’t safe. The hospital is too public. Too many windows.”

“Did you make this decision yourself?”

Michael nodded. “It’s my job as your bodyguard to keep you safe.”

Gordon didn’t bother hiding his anger. “Next time something like that happens, you notify _me_ first.”

Michael nodded. “I understand, but I think I was correct in my assessment.”

“How is that?” Dick asked.

“The victim said that Batman and Robin were the ones who assaulted him.”

Dick felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. He shared a quick glance with Gordon, who had paled considerably. They both knew that Batman’s alibi, but they couldn’t talk about the meeting in public. Especially not in front of Michael.

And that was two witnesses saying Robin had been there.

Michael looked smug. “Batman isn’t as safe as Gotham thinks he is.”

While Dick was still digesting this new information, Michael turned to address Gordon more directly. “We need to discuss some sensitive information.”

Gordon didn’t look at him, but Dick had a feeling he was watching Dick’s reaction. Dick steeled his gaze and nodded his head. Gordon turned to him fully. “Dick, I’m afraid this is my cue to let you go. It’s been great seeing you. Come by anytime.”

Dick plastered a smile on his face. “Careful, I might take you up on that.”

Michael watched with a frown as he left. He shut the door forcefully behind him.

Dick dropped his fake smile the second he was out of sight. He waited until he got into his car to pull his cell from his pocket and connect to the cameras in the office. With earbuds in, he watched intently.

Gordon was looking through the papers that Michael had brought. Dick couldn’t see his face, but he could guess from his body language that the commissioner didn’t like what he was seeing. “These are warrants for the arrest of the victims.”

Michael’s face hardened. “The victims were intoxicated when they were admitted. And we found heroin on them.” Dick’s eyebrows rose. They certainly hadn’t seemed the type, and Batman and Gordon hadn’t found anything when they searched their pockets for medical information at the scene of the explosion. From the looks of it, Gordon was equally surprised, though he was schooling his face into something harder.

Michael continued, oblivious to the change in tone. “We think—”

“Who is _we_?” Gordon’s tone was stony.

Michael cleared his throat. “ _I_ have connected them to a local drug ring. I just need you to sign the paperwork so I can continue investigating.” He leaned forward, dropping his voice. Batman’s cameras and microphones had no trouble picking up his whispers. “One of them works at the hotel where the blackmail footage was created. They could be involved in the blackmail case.”

Gordon looked at the papers and sat back on his desk, sending his own piles sliding down the side. Ignoring the mess for now, he reached for the pen in his pocket. Michael watched with a predatory focus.

Just before his pen hit the paper, Gordon paused and looked up at him. “I want you to understand I am only doing this because of the dire circumstances. Do not— _ever_ —go behind my back like that again.”

Michael’s face darkened. He nodded wordlessly.

Gordon signed the papers.

Michael cleared his throat again, catching Gordon’s attention after he was finished. “And the others?”

Gordon looked down at a separate pile. There was a deep crease between his eyebrows. “I don’t think the judge will be a fan of such extreme measures.”

Michael shifted his weight like he was about to try and intimidate Gordon, then backed off at the other man’s warning look. “Batman is a menace. He should be stopped, at all costs.”

Gordon shook his head. “I need more evidence. Bring it to me, and I’ll consider it.”

Dick’s mind was running a thousand miles a minute. Michael wanted Batman arrested, and ‘extreme measures’ usually meant somebody was suggesting the death penalty. There was something fishy going on, and Dick didn’t like where Michael’s paperwork was heading. Though, if Gordon was asking for more evidence, it meant that Michael was strapped for the time being; everything was destroyed in the fire.

He had bought Batman time, but how much?

Michael snatched the papers back from Gordon’s hands. Dick’s eyes narrowed, watching Michael’s gestures. Now that he was looking, one of Michael’s sleeves seemed to be sticking to his wrist. It didn’t pull away like the other did.

Dick eyed the lunch in his passenger seat. Alfred would be disappointed.

* * *

Dick made sure to catch him when he wouldn’t suspect it. “Shit! I’m so sorry!”

Michael reared back, the scalding chicken soup coating his sleeves and chest. “Watch where you’re going,” he mumble-growled.

Dick ignored the threat (for now), pulling tissues from his pocket. “Let me help you with that.” He started with the man’s right arm, patting and blotting the worst of the broth away. “Wow, there’s carrot up your sleeve,” he nervous-laughed. With that, he pushed his sleeve up.

Michael pushed him away, pulling his sleeve back down in the same motion. “I’ll have to change.” He got down in Dick’s face, pointing an accusatory finger. “You need to watch it.”

Dick smiled apologetically, “I’m sorry about your shirt; I’ll have Bruce send you a new one.” He screwed the lid to his thermos shut tighter and offered it to Michael. “I forgot that my butler made soup for Mr. Gordon. Can you get it to him for me?”

Michael leveled one last angry glare at him before pushing past, bumping shoulders and chicken soup with him on the way. Dick ignored it, watching Michael’s retreating figure. The soup would probably end up down the drain, but it was worth it for his quick glance at Michael’s forearm.

Damian had always bared his teeth when he was angry, like some kind of animal on the offense. Over the last few months Dick had taken great joy in watching those snarls and growls become replaced with the occasional victorious smirk and joyful smile. Snarling or smiling, Damian’s canines stood out: they were slightly bigger than his other teeth and came down to fine points. Dick had once jokingly asked if he had filed them that way, but Damian had pridefully said it came from his grandfather’s side.

‘An al Ghul’s bite,’ he had said, ‘is always worse than his bark.’

And Dick had never known how true it was, until he saw those teeth imprinted in Michael’s arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am officially back in school, and found out on Wednesday that I need to finish my thesis a lot sooner than I had originally thought. That being said, I am holding this fic (which I want to write) hostage until I work on my thesis (which I need to write.) So I'm not going on hiatus or anything, but I want to warn you that I will be slower updating for the next few weeks.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thank you for being so patient. I reached my first goal for my thesis, so I celebrated by writing. . . this. 
> 
> This is the chapter you have been waiting for since chapter 6. It's the longest yet! Heads up: physical abuse and child abuse. (But you knew that.)

Damian woke up with a start when the door to the basement slammed against the opposite wall. The movement, though small, was enough to reignite the fire across his back. He hissed, then bit his tongue to keep any other noises from escaping.

He could still taste blood, and a small part of him was happy with the knowledge that at least some of it was Heymann’s.

The man’s footsteps were heavier than usual down the steps, making Damian’s hair stand on end. He was still angry. Damian wanted nothing more than to stand up, or at least prop himself up against the wall so he could properly defend himself. Instead, he pulled his legs to his bare chest—the stretch making his back _ache_ —to protect as much as he could.

His collar never felt more heavy than it did now, with his leash keeping his neck tethered a few inches from the floor.

Heymann rounded the stairs and Damian eyed the duffle bag in his hands warily. Anything could fit in there. _He_ could probably fit in there. When Heymann shrugged the bag onto the ground, Damian flinched again as a metallic _clang_ echoed off the basement walls.

The larger man fished something out of the bag and stepped toward him. “Roll over.”

Damian pulled his knees in tighter, tensing in preparation to defend himself. His hands, ziptied together once again, curled into fists against his chest.

“Let me see your back. I need to make sure nothing gets infected.” He showed Damian a tube of triple antibiotic.

It was a sound argument; Damian could hardly afford an infection right now. But it was like his muscles had frozen. He couldn’t bring himself to expose his injuries like that.

Heymann’s eyes hardened along with his tone. “Robin,” he snapped. “Show me your back or I swear I will add five more.”

Damian closed his eyes and took a centering breath. On the exhale, he slowly released his legs.

Too slowly. Heymann lost his patience and forced Damian to his stomach. He yanked his hands behind his head. Like last time.

Damian shuddered hard at the first brush of a finger against one of the deeper lines. Heymann clucked his tongue when the touch caused small beads of blood to well up from the scratches the buckle left. “You shouldn’t have tried to leave,” he said. There was a pause before cool cream was rubbed over the laceration. Damian kept his eyes shut and focused on his breathing, even as every unexpected touch made him jump. “And I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

Damian dug his elbows into the floor below him, causing the scabs already there to reopen.

When the antibiotic had been applied to all of the open wounds striping Damian’s back, Heymann released his leash just enough for him to sit up properly. He cut the ties around his wrists just long enough to put him back in his tunic. Damian didn’t complain, even as the rough fabric caught on the sore edges of his back. He was just glad for the thin protection from the cold. The space heater in the corner warmed the air, but hardly defended him from the heat-sucking floor. He tensed when Heymann tightened zipties around his wrists behind his back again, but only let out a grunt when the sharp edges sank into the old cuts already there. The new position made the pain in his shoulders flare up again.

Damian continued his breathing, now with his head tucked between his knees, until his traitorous body stopped trembling. When he looked up, Heymann was staring at him. Meeting his gaze, the older man raised his eyebrows.

Damian’s mouth was dry, but he ran his tongue along his teeth to muster a, “What do you want?” To his mortification, it wasn’t threatening. It sounded more like a plea than anything.

“I have given you a gift. I expect a ‘thank you.’”

Damian’s face burned. “It was the least you could do after you ripped my back open—”

Heymann’s eyebrows dropped into anger again. “Let’s make one thing clear: that was _your_ fault. I wouldn’t have had to do that if you hadn’t forced my hand.”

Damian’s hands clenched into fists. There was a swear, at the tip of his tongue, but this wasn’t the hill he wanted to die on. He tutted.

“I’m waiting.”

He directed an almost unintelligible ‘thank you’ at the floor.

Heymann smirked. “What was that?”

“Thank you,” Damian said, with all the venom he could muster behind it. He still couldn’t make himself look up at the man, (past the belt around his waist.)

“That was closer. We’ll work on it.” Heymann turned back to the bag, pulling out what looked like a thermos. “I think you’ll like this.”

“Doubt it.” Sleep, though turbulent, had been good for Damian. His head was clearer, and anger was replacing the fear.

But the thermos clicked open, and a wonderful smell rose form it. Damian’s stomach rumbled in anticipation. Traitor.

“Chicken noodle soup.” Heymann tilted the cup slightly to show him. “Looks good, doesn’t it?”

Damian’s hands flexed behind his back. “No.”

“Are you sure?” Heymann swirled the bowl of soup under Damian’s nose. “The Wayne kid, Dick, brought this to Gordon.”

Damian blinked hard, fighting to keep a straight face. If Grayson was working with Gordon out of costume, it meant Gordon knew something was up. Grayson obviously would have noticed his absence, even if only because he was the only one who knew how to convince Titus to stop barking at the birds through the window.

He hadn’t realized it was so small, but the hope in his chest grew a little bit. It only served to steel his nerve.

Heymann, unaware of the good news he bore, continued. “I bet he has a full kitchen staff making it for him. Are you saying your taste is better than the billionaire boy’s?”

The thought of Grayson’s sugary cereal briefly flit through Damian’s conscious. Billionaire or not, the man still ate like a toddler.

He frowned. “It’s soup. How am I even supposed to—” A hot spoon was shoved in his mouth.

The soup was excellent, nothing less than what he would have expected from Pennyworth. Still, after only a second of savoring it he spit it out again. The broth dribbled on Heymann’s shoes.

“You ungrateful brat!”

“I’m a vegetarian.”

Something heated flashed across Heymann’s face. “Starting today, you’re not.” He took another spoonful of the soup. “Open wide.”

Damian clenched his jaw and turned his face away.

Immediately, there was an insistent hand at his chin, pulling him back. The longer fingers skimmed to the back of his jaw, where the pressure points lay. “I have no use for a weak Robin. You will eat, whether I have to force you or not.” Those fingers tightened on his jaw, pulling it forward away from his skull.

Damian made a noise of discomfort, and Heymann released the pressure. Held a spoonful of soup to his lips. “Bon appetite.”

Hesitantly, Damian opened his mouth.

The food was good. It made him wish he were hungry.

By the time he had eaten as much soup as Heymann could force into him—much more than he felt he could stomach himself, after three days of fasting—it had cooled. Heymann finally set the spoon on the floor. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Damian didn’t say anything. At least he wasn’t asking for another fake ‘thank you.’

The man crouched low in front of him. “I have figured out what your problem is.” He reached forward, lighting skimming the edge of the domino—which Damian realized was already beginning to itch—on his way to Damian’s hair. “You aren’t following my orders because you aren’t Robin.”

“I choose not to follow you orders because you are insane,” Damian hissed. He tried to twist his head away, but Heymann just rested a hand on his leash. That was enough of a threat that Damian stayed still.

He ran a hand through Damian’s greasy hair, intentionally parting it down the wrong side. “Things like that. Maybe if you _felt_ like Robin again you would remember your place.” He sat back, assessing his work. His head bobbed side to side in half-approval.

Then he pulled the duffle bag closer and pulled out a pair of green gloves, a pair of thin-soled pixie boots, and a yellow cape that looked as though it wouldn’t reach past his bottom. As much as he hated the sight of them, Damian felt something in him relax. This was a familiar argument, especially now that he wasn’t teetering on the edge of hypothermia.

“I am not wearing those.”

Heymann hummed, nodding. “You will.” He dropped his hand onto Damian’s shoulder, where he rested a thumb against his collar. “I’ll cut you a deal.”

“No,” Damian replied, before the man had finished. “No more deals. I won’t work with you anymore.”

“Like _Hell_ you won’t.” His voice was much louder now. Damian shrank back the smallest amount. It was a useless gesture with Heymann’s fingers wrapped around his collar. “You aren’t getting out of this.”

Damian grit his teeth. “Watch me.”

“You’re going to run back to the fake?” Heymann’s voice was patronizing, dripping with sarcasm.

Damian narrowed his eyes. “No.”

“Oh?”

He kept his voice even, letting the ice he had learned from his grandfather frost over his words. “I will break every bone in your body, starting with your fingers and toes, and work my way to the center. And then I will leave you down here to starve to death.”

Heymann grew still, fingers wrapped around Damian’s throat but not squeezing. Damian took the opportunity to wriggle out of his grip, barely resisting the urge to sink his teeth into the bite mark he could see on Heymann’s forearm. But it was just as stupid a move now as it was hours earlier, when he was chained to the floor. Instead, Damian watched Heymann with what he hoped was an even glare.

There was a dreadful moment of quiet. “Every bone in my body, huh?” Heymann breathed. Damian sank back into the wall as Heymann leaned in closer. “You’ll have to show me that trick, sometime.”

Damian pursed his lips. Damn. Damn him.

“And what then?” Heymann asked. “You know the old guy won’t take you back.”

Damian’s heart stuttered.

Something must have given him away, because Heymann didn’t let up. “I’ve studied the Batman. The new guy? He’s so soft—I doubt he would approve of what you did.” Heymann’s grin spread. “Of what you’ve already done, here with me.”

Heymann didn’t know the half of it. Damian had already agreed not to kill, not to use excessive force. And last night—

“One of those punks last night survived, and they told the police what they saw. ‘Robin’s gone rabid.’ He would take one look at you and send you away.”

Damian’s breath hitched. He could see Grayson’s face, his eyes filled with anger. He could hear him telling him to go back to his mother, since he was so keen on being an al Ghul. “Shut up,” he muttered, half to the man in front of him and half to his imagination.

“He wouldn’t want you. He may even send you back—”

“Fuck you!” Damian surged forward, knocking his forehead into Heymann’s nose with a resounding _crack_.

Heymann reared back, swearing as he tried to stop the sudden flow of blood. Damian coughed, his collar having caught him before he could follow through the momentum.

He didn’t see Heymann’s fist, only heard the whistle of air before his head bounced off the wall behind him.

And then he heard the belt being unbuckled.

His heart seized.

“No—”

“You deserve it.”

“No—please don’t—”

Heymann paused. Damian steeled himself before looking up. His eyes caught on the leather belt, slid halfway out of Heymann’s pants. The brass buckle still had scratches that matched the grit in the wall.

“Ask nicely.”

When Damian didn’t immediately respond, Heymann continued drawing the belt out. It was enough to spur him into action. “Please don’t. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

Heymann let him wait as he contemplated his answer. He jerked like he was going to pull the belt out, making Damian cringe backward.

Heymann laughed, abruptly switching tactics and pulling the belt back on instead. Damian stayed where he was, huddled into the wall as though he wished he could become part of it.

“I’ll give you this last chance, Robin.” He waited half a second before mentioning, “you should thank me.”

Damian didn’t dare open his mouth, too afraid that his real feelings would spill out and get him into more trouble.

Heymann grunted with frustration. “Fine. You know what? If you’re going to get quiet all of a sudden anyway, I may as well go ahead and show you this.” He rustled around in the duffle until he found what he was looking for.

He didn’t bother asking Damian to comply—probably because he saw his resolve when he showed it to him. His hand spanned the full width of Damian’s jaw as he held his chin in place. This was accompanied by a painful squeeze to the space where his jaw met his skull, forcing his mouth to drop open. Not much, but once Heymann got a finger between his teeth it was game over.

Damian made a noise of protest as the mouthguard was shoved into place. He guessed it belonged to the man; the humility of it being a _used_ mouthguard was almost as bad as it being too big. Though it had enough bend to stretch over all of his teeth, the back of it reached far enough into his mouth he gagged. The roof of it hung low, forcing his tongue to lie flat against the bottom of his mouth.

He ducked his head, trying to push it back out of his mouth with his tongue. Heymann caught the movement with his hand, easily keeping it in place. “Ah-ah,” he chided. His free hand patted the floor until he found the roll of tape he had brought with him. This, he wound around Damian’s head, over his mouth, three times. It was wide enough to reach from just below his nose to the bottom of his chin, and tight enough it pressed his lips into the rubbery plastic behind them. There was no way he was dislodging it.

He didn’t bother trying.

He breathed hard through his nose, wary as Heymann leaned back on his heels. “You should be trained not to bite by the time you can walk.” He rubbed a hand over where Damian knew his teeth impressions were. “If you want to act like an animal, you’ll be treated like one, too.”

Damian tried swearing at him, but all that came out was a muffled “umphoo.”

“I had time to think, while I was at work,” Heymann replied, ignoring Damian in favor of digging through his duffle bag again. Damian craned his neck, almost toppling to the side, trying to get a glimpse of what he pulled from it. With each metallic clang, he got more tense. “You’re too stubborn for your own good.”

Heymann turned to him with a smooth metal circle, about an inch and a half wide. It hinged open. He also brought around matching metal manacles. “You have proven to me that you need the physical reminder that you belong here now.”

The last thing he pulled out was a soldering iron and metal for melting.

The bottom of Damian’s stomach dropped out.

“These will be permanent.”

Damian’s blood pounded in his ears as he watched Heymann plug the soldering iron into an outlet. He had about a minute before it was hot enough—

“Hold still.” Heymann crowded him into the wall as he transferred his leash from the collar on his neck to the metal one in his hands. Damian made one aborted attempt to stand before the cold metal snapped shut around his neck.

It was tighter than his old collar, and slightly heavier. He swallowed uneasily. His fingers reached back until they hooked around his leash, and they clung so hard his knuckled turned white.

Heymann hooked one finger under the back of his collar—it really was tighter than his old one—and pulled up, forcing Damian to tilt his head forward to accommodate the angle. “Hold still,” he repeated, releasing the hold.

Suddenly, there was heat at his neck, and Damian shuddered. In retaliation, burning fluid trickled onto his neck. He cringed away from the feeling, but there was nowhere to go. The longer it sat on his skin, the hotter it felt. He groaned through his gag.

“Damn. I said _hold still_.” He pushed Damian down onto his stomach. With no way to catch himself, he landed hard on his bruised chest and cheek. He gave a muffled shout when heavy weight slammed into his head and between his shoulders, one knee digging into a particularly painful gash on his back.

Then the heat was back at his neck, and Damian froze.

It took an agonizingly long time, the soldering iron meant for connecting wires instead of large metal pieces. Heymann’s hands shook just enough to send the occasional drop onto Damian’s neck instead of the collar—or maybe it was just dripping off the edge. He couldn’t see it. He clenched his eyes shut and found himself again focusing on just breathing.

Heymann was too heavy on his chest, and Damian couldn’t get a decent breath through just his nose. It wasn’t long before he started seeing spots, and in a panic he tried to slap Heymann’s knee to get him to shift off his ribs. He couldn’t reach, and either Heymann didn’t notice or he didn’t care.

He blacked out.

He didn’t think he had been out of it very long until he tried to shift and realized that his hands felt heavy. With a dawning sense of horror, he reached—gloved? —fingers up until he skimmed the edge of the manacles. Sealed around his wrists, pinning his arms behind his back.

“Welcome back,” Heymann said. “I should knock you out more often; it makes you a lot easier to deal with.”

Damian looked down at himself. The boots were on his feet, and only a half size too big. The cape draped over his shoulders, hiding his bound arms.

When he swallowed, he still felt that collar around his neck.

Heymann appraised him and nodded. “So much better.” He cocked his head to the side suddenly. “But it’s missing something.”

Damian’s eyebrows pulled together. He didn’t think that the man would be giving him a utility belt, or any other weapon. Maybe he was more stupid than he had thought.

“Ah, that’s right.” Heymann pulled a marker from his pocket and approached him. Damian flinched away from his touch, but Heymann grabbed his chin with a firm grasp and used his marker to draw a crooked ‘U’ shape on the tape covering Damian’s mouth. “The old Robin smiled more.”

Damian’s cheeks burned, but this time not in anger.

Heymann pat him on the head as he rose back to his feet. “My Robin, finally complete,” he muttered to himself.

He didn’t look back, just rose his voice to address Damian. “I’ll be back tomorrow night. We’ve got work to do.”

He left.

The second he was alone, Damian let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He sought out the pin hidden in the seam of his shorts.

He had to get out.

Then he remembered. A lockpick would do no good against a collar without a lock.

He let the pin drop with his first silent tears.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back?  
> Sorry for making everyone wait, but I finally finished my thesis! So I should be back to fairly-frequent updates now :)  
> This chapter is a bit of a transition chapter, because halfway through writing the rest it was too long for my pea brain to read in one sitting so I went ahead and cut it off.

Batman waited, figure still as the night in the shadows of the fire escape. His eyes, the cowl’s magnification engaged, were trained on the window across and below him, through which he had a clear view of the man’s apartment.

Heymann was still there, watching the news while finishing his dinner.

Dick had been on stakeout for two hours already, and his back and legs protested with the need to _move_. But he couldn’t risk moving and catching the man’s attention. He just had to wait until he left, and he planned on investigating him further.

The apartment building was on the older side of Gotham, headed toward the grimy side. It wasn’t surprising, considering an officer’s salary in the city. But Dick had studied the building’s blueprints and schematics: there was an old elevator shaft, a cellar, and at least three empty apartments that may prove not to be so empty. He had poured over the blueprints with growing dread and relief: Damian could so easily be hidden there. He could stage his rescue tonight, and then he could move forward with the evidence against Heymann and put him away for good.

The evidence. Dick’s eyes kept straying to the vile man’s bare arms. Thinking he was free of public scrutiny, Heymann had rolled up his sleeves and washed makeup from his hands, revealing bruised knuckles. And that bite.

Dick’s jaw clenched at the sight. What kind of position would Damian have to be in to have access to Heymann’s forearm? None of the answers his mind helpfully supplied were good.

He became so lost in his boiling anger that he didn’t notice the television flick off until Heymann was rising from his couch. He stretched his back, popped his knuckles with a wince. Then, only pausing long enough to grab his jacket from the pegs next to his door, he left.

Dick waited until he saw the figure leaving through the front door to move in.

Heymann’s apartment was on the top floor. Dick silently grappled the gap between the two buildings, landing on the lip of the window he had been watching through. With practiced ease, he shimmied the window open enough to slip inside.

It was much warmer inside. Dick hadn’t realized how cold it was outside until feeling began to return to his lips. Heymann had left a lamp on in the living room, but Dick flipped his lenses to heat vision to scan the area for any other living creatures. To his disappointment, he found nothing more than the old radiator under the window in the bedroom.

No Robin.

Yet.

With new determination, deciding there was nothing of interest in the living room, he slipped through the door into the bedroom.

It was sparsely decorated, just like the rest of the small apartment. A queen-sized bed took up most of the space, dressed in painfully bland sheets folded in rigid order. Dick ran a flashlight under the bed, and pulled out a plastic tub. He held his breath as he opened it, rifling through its contents.

A bent lampshade. A handful of wire hangers. One sad miniature plastic tree, that he guessed was what passed as a Christmas decoration.

Junk.

Keeping himself calm was harder than it should have been as he closed the container and pushed it back into place.

He went through the bedroom closet next. The entire interior was plastered with outdated textured wallpaper. On the singular rack hung clothes all in the same shade of gray, blue, and black. Dick gave them little more than a passing glance before turning his attention to the two shelves in the wall above the rack. There were a few shoeboxes, and a few sweaters (navy blue, gray, and black again.) What caught his attention was another tub, this one of a nicer quality than the others, despite the obvious wear-and-tear on the corners. It stood out amongst the junk of the rest of the shelves, tucked carefully into the corner.

He pulled it down gingerly. It was heavier than he had thought it would be. He gave the tub a quick scan, just to make sure it didn’t have anything dangerous in it. When the scan came back negative, he popped the top off.

He didn’t know what he was looking at, at first.

It looked like a white cloud. Layer upon layer of fluffy white chiffon that spilled out of the tub the second it was allowed to. Dick wiped his gloved hands on his thighs to remove any Gotham residue that could be left before lifting the fabric out.

A wedding dress. He had to turn the fabric to find the bodice of it, a simple construction made of glossy white satin. It was beautiful; simple and elegant in design. Dick peered into the bodice. Judging by the slight yellowing, it had been worn, too.

He caught a flash of movement from inside the tub, and barely curbed his reflex to drop the dress. Upon closer inspection, it was his own reflection, in the glass of a photo.

He set the dress aside on the bed—it smelled florally, like a nice perfume—and looked through the contents of this tub.

This wasn’t what he was looking for, but it was certainly something.

The picture was that of a much younger Heymann. He had a smaller build; it must have been taken before he became such a gym rat. But his wide shoulders and what Dick could only describe (but he was biased) as beady eyes were unmistakable. Next to the man, leaning into his shoulder, was a petite woman, with long curly brown hair. She was smiling a wide, toothy grin. One of her hands was wrapped around the third occupant of the photo.

Dick’s eyes widened. Heymann had a son.

This information wasn’t in the man’s profile. It wasn’t usually included, but would have been investigated as part of the background check before being assigned as bodyguard, which meant there should have been some trace left.

Dick sorted through the rest of the contents of the box. They all seemed to be mementos of a life long-passed: a child’s baseball glove. A velvet box with a nice jewelry set inside. And the entire bottom of the tub was full of pictures, all different sizes from different eras of photography. All featuring Heymann’s wife and son.

Dick came to himself after a few minutes. He knew what it was like to lose family—and at the thought he had to snap back into focus. Perhaps reverently, he returned each item to the box and tucked it back into place on the shelf. He wouldn’t find Damian here.

A thorough search of the rest of the apartment found a well-stocked and well-used first aid kit, and Dick’s heart sank when he noticed the giant bottle of antiseptic was half-empty. There was concealer, the same stuff Alfred got them to cover us their own bruises. Otherwise, the apartment was pristine; nothing that would indicate the violence the man was capable of.

Batman moved on, exiting the apartment to explore the rest of the building. He saved time by flicking his heat indicators on, which showed that the unused apartments were as empty as they were supposed to be. The elevator shaft was completely boarded shut, with no signs of forced entry.

That left the cellar. Dick’s investigations had revealed that the old thing was locked up after flooding in the area two decades ago. The door to the stairway leading down was in the landlord’s office, which was also locked, as the landlord had a nice estate outside the city and only ever visited to collect his dues. But from the outside?

He studied the perimeter of the building. There was a single window to the cellar, set below street level and tucked away behind a dumpster, probably to discourage attempted stowaways. He knelt in the grit of the alley to get a closer look. There were scratches along the frame, and a medium-sized push was all it took to swing the small window back.

Bingo.

It was a tight squeeze, he had to admit. But if he could do it wearing the cape and bullet-proof armor, he had no doubt Heymann could wriggle through.

He landed on the floor in a crouch, boots making his impact silent. There was no other noise in the basement, no light. He waited, and when he was sure that there was nobody hiding in the dark, he pulled out his flashlight.

His blood ran cold.

“ _Robin_ ,” he whispered.

* * *

Heymann returned, and Damian felt everything tense at the sound of his heavy boots on the stairs. His breath hitched when he took in the Batman suit again, but not because of the all-too-familiar visage: Heymann had his leather belt folded in his hand.

“Happy to see me, huh?” Heyman joked, tracing the marker smile on Damian’s gag with one gloved finger. “Ready for patrol, Robin?”

Damian was still, eyes glued to the belt.

Heymann noticed. “What, this?” He flicked the belt up to gesture to it, and Damian hated himself for the way he flinched at the movement. “This is just in case. You aren’t going to misbehave, are you?”

Damian wasn’t fast enough to respond. Heymann pulled the two ends of the belt between his hands, making a loud clapping sound that made Damian twitch away again. “ _Are you_?”

Damian shook his head too quickly, making his head swim. He had lost track of what injury caused what hurt; it could have been Heymann’s punches, or the belt, or even just dehydration.

“That’s it. Good.” Damian couldn’t duck away from Heymann’s hand, patting the top of his head like he would a dog.

Without preamble, Heymann pulled him to his feet. Damian stumbled, something in his bad ankle popping before it settled into a dull ache. Heymann caught him with one arm, and swung him around so he faced the wall he had been leaning against.

Damian shut his eyes as he felt Heymann’s hands gliding down his arms, over the manacles locked around his wrists. When he nudged one, Damian sucked in a breath through his nose, the edge of the metal sinking into one of the burns there. But then, there was a soft click, and Damian’s arms fell forward.

He couldn’t help letting out a muffled groan. The strain on his shoulders was gone, but moving his arms to the front reawakened his aching back.

Heymann was fiddling with something metallic behind him, so Damian took the brief opportunity to examine the cuffs around his wrists. His breath came out harsh when he took stock of the skin around them, small clusters of blisters where the heat had become too much. The cuffs themselves were a similar mess; he found the seam where they had previously opened and the metal used to fuse them shut was hardly a neat job. There were anchor points on the inside of his wrists, and Damian guessed Heymann needed him to have use of his hands as Robin or he’d just weld the cuffs together, too.

The thought made him shudder.

He glanced over his shoulder. Heymann was still taking stock of his poor excuse of a utility belt, distracted for the time. Hesitantly, Damian’s hands rose to his face, where the duct tape was wrapped around his head. He skimmed his fingers over it, trying to find the seam. He wanted it _off_.

Heymann realized what he was trying to do just as he had managed to tease a small part of the edge away from his cheek. “Don’t try that, Robin.”

Damian ignored him, digging a little deeper.

“Robin, _no_.”

Despite himself, his hands stilled.

Heymann smirked. “Looks like it’s working; you seem to get it now.”

Damian cringed.

Evidently finished with whatever had his attention earlier, Heymann wrapped Damian’s leash around his wrist. Without warning, he pulled Damian around so his back was to Heymann’s front. “We’re going to leave, and you aren’t going to try anything, right?”

Damian nodded, shallowly.

Heymann’s free hand came down to rest over Damian’s eyes, and then they were moving, Heymann’s other hand locked around Damian’s wrist to help steer him up and out of the basement.

He listens, this time, for some kind of clue as to where they were. He couldn’t see, but he could hear an old refrigerator humming, and caught the brief gusts of warm air from a space heater. He was distracted by the sound of Heymann unlocking the door—lock after lock after lock—and then the door was creaking open.

Damian took a reflexive step backward, into Heymann’s armored chest, as the first blast of frigid air hit him. It was even colder than it had been before, and judging by the tingling feeling on his bare arms, it was snowing. His nose immediately began to run against the dry cold air.

He was frog marched until his thighs met the freezing metal surface of Heymann’s car. The man didn’t remove his hand until the trunk was open, and then all Damian could see was a glimpse of snowflakes before he was unceremoniously shoved inside. He barely pulled his feet in fast enough to keep them being clipped by the door slamming shut.

Heymann had thought to line the trunk with a blanket, but it wasn’t nearly enough to make up for the poor insulation in the back. Damian curled his knees into his chest and wrapped himself in the blanket, but the snow quickly melted and left him wet.

Within seconds he was shivering.

* * *

“ _Robin_ ,” Dick whispered.

Damian wasn’t here.

But there were _pictures_.

Tacked again every wall, every surface, were newspaper clippings and photos. There were a few hand-written notes scattered under collections of pictures. With a sinking feeling, Dick translated the chicken scratch of one as “frequently crosses Broad Street. Regular patrol route?” Above it was a grainy picture of Damian as Robin, half-hidden behind the external refrigeration unit. The corner of Batman’s— _Bruce’s_ —cape was just visible.

There were pictures of himself, too. In the Batman gear, with parts crossed out with an angry red marker. “Too short,” read one note. One picture was a candid, Dick in a handstand with a smile while Robin brooded behind him. “Smile?” read the note under that.

Heymann knew he wasn’t the original Batman. And that was why he had targeted Robin? To get to him?

No. His eyes caught the far, most cramped corner of the space. There was just one picture he instantly recognized as the one that had circulated in the Gotham Gazette for months. It was a still from a security camera in one of a string of robberies that he had helped Bruce stop back when he was still Robin. The camera featured both of them, in their original gear. Robin had a grin splitting his face as he flipped over a robber’s shoulders, and Batman was seconds away from landing a punch. Dick used to look at the photo fondly, the nostalgia of old times catching up.

Now, he only felt his throat close up as he scanned the batch of notes surrounding it: a list of known martial arts, a description of the uniform. A map of Gotham, with an almost exact match of Batman and Robin’s patrol route charted in red string.

While his heart sped up, Dick stepped closer, and his foot hit another box, the same build as the one in his closet upstairs. Dick didn’t hesitate to open this one.

Sitting right on top was a copy of Batman’s cowl.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I finished my thesis! I will now update regularly!  
> My sleep debt: B**** you thought  
> (Sorry for the wait. I am back, refreshed, and excited to finish! We are approaching terminal velocity!)

Damian tried to keep track of the turns the car took, but his swimming head made it hard to tell whether what felt like a lurch to the side was the car or his mind playing tricks. Eventually, the blanket became a lukewarm cocoon around him, and he used it to help sop up some of the melted snow pocking his bare skin. Nevertheless, he was still fighting back the occasional shudder when Heymann pulled to a stop and the trunk opened again.

Every muscle in his body tensed when a fresh blast of the frigid air hit him. He couldn’t imagine an entire patrol in this weather.

Heymann wrapped his leash around his wrist, shorter than their last “excursion.” “If you don’t behave,” he said in a low tone, yanking Damian out of trunk, “there will be consequences.”

Unprompted, Damian nodded his understanding. He hated the way he sniffled afterward, but his nose was running and he couldn’t breathe through his gagged mouth.

Heymann grinned, leaning forward and patting his cheek. “You’re in for a treat tonight,” he said. “We’re going to take out that gang that the other guy couldn’t even touch.”

Damian nodded numbly, busying his hands by bundling his cape around him in an attempt to keep the cold out. He didn’t want to think about helping Heymann kill a few dozen people. Especially not that he had already helped him kill before.

He knew the consequences of killing; he had done it often enough. But Heymann was a gun cocked against his temple, and right now Damian was more afraid of him than his plummet from Grayson’s favor.

That, he knew, would change later.

It wasn’t until they had trekked over several rooftops that Damian began to figure out exactly what the delusional man was talking about. They were headed toward a location he and Richard had been patrolling more vigilantly the last several weeks. The Tin Dragons—at least, that’s the name of the bar they frequented—were one of the more aggressive gangs in Gotham. Batman and Robin had been watching their movements, waiting for the right moment to dismantle their system. The gang was well-armed, and a misstep would easily end in disaster, both for the vigilantes and Gotham.

The realization hit him with a wave of unease, and it meant he wasn’t watching Heymann when the man slipped on a patch of ice. His arms flailed, yanking Damian’s leash.

Damian lost his footing and fell to his knees in freezing slush.

It took him too long to reorient himself. His arms quivered where they caught his bodyweight, just short of faceplanting in the large puddle. Heymann loomed over him with the silent command to stand up. With more effort than it should have taken, Damian shakily rose back to his feet. He noted that his knees were scraped open and bleeding sluggishly with a grimace. He wasn’t likely to receive any kind of medical attention for them.

A rough, gloved, _warm_ hand lifted his chin. “Get focused, Robin. We’ve got work to do.”

The shudder that ran down his spine was not caused by the gust of wind.

Robin steeled himself. He considered shaking his head, trying to signal to Heymann what a _terrible_ idea this was. If Batman and Robin couldn’t take out this gang themselves, there was no way this imbecile could.

Damian hesitated.

Heymann released the bruising grip on his jaw, and the opportunity was lost.

The man pulled him over several more rooftops at an even faster pace. It felt nearly impossible for Damian, whose body had decided shivering was more important than running. The cold burned through his airways, making him regret each breath even as his chest heaved for more.

He was thankful when they were within a block of the bar. The feeling was quickly overridden by paranoia. The location was more than a known hangout of the members; Robin had his suspicions it served as its headquarters. As they approached, he searched the shadows for movement. The gang was known to keep lookouts.

A gust of wind blew wet, fat flakes into his face. He adjusted the collar around his neck. It, and the manacles, were metal, and they stung where they made contact with his bare skin, constantly leeching heat away.

“We’re close,” Heymann announced unnecessarily. Just like the last time, he didn’t move with any intention of staying hidden. His boots were loud on the crusty frost as he walked to the edge of the roof they were on and looked out into the darkness.

Another gust of wind had Damian ducking into his cape, trying in vain to protect his face. He jumped when Heymann’s hand landed on his shoulder.

“Take this.” The man pulled something from his utility belt to hand to Robin. Damian watched his own fingers uncurl, much too slowly, with detached fascination; the cold was progressing.

Set into his hands was a small lockpick set, and the irony was not lost on him. Had Damian had it two days earlier, he wouldn’t be here right now. As it was, he was shivering too violently to be able to use it, anyway.

“You’re going to pick the lock on the back door to let us in, and then we’ll go in and set the bombs.” Heymann’s heavy hand landed on his back, making Damian wince. He wasn’t sure if the pain he felt was real or remembered. “We’re going to do something that should have been done a long time ago. You’re going to see what a _competent_ Batman can do.”

Damian looked down at his hands. If he was going to pick a lock, he needed to be able to feel them. His gloves were soaked through, probably from the fall earlier. No wonder his hands were so cold. With unintentionally slow movements, he gingerly peeled the material away from his blistered skin, ready to remove it to prevent frostbite.

Heymann’s hand shot out, twisting his wrist backward. The lockpick set’s pieces scattered on the ground. Damian’s breath caught from the stretch. “What do you think you’re doing?” the man growled.

Unable to speak, Damian stared back with wide eyes.

Heymann’s glare increased, his grip tightening over Damian’s burns. Damian’s eyes began to water. “The gloves stay on. Try that again and I’ll break your wrist. Understand?”

Damian nodded.

Still, Heymann held his wrist in the pin. Then he pushed the twist a little further, forcing a whimper from the back of Damian’s throat. The boy used his free hand to sign “sorry,” desperate to appease the man.

It did no good. Just when he felt the ligaments in his wrist on the verge of popping, there was a yell from somewhere far away.

Heymann dropped his wrist as a bullet sank into the concrete lip of the roof.

“Shit,” Heymann hissed, unnecessarily. “We’ve been spotted.”

He pulled Damian with him behind a small, dirty greenhouse on the roof and pressed Damian flat against the building next to him.

A bullet whizzed over their heads, through the greenhouse, causing a small mist of glass to rain down, and Heymann reacted with another swear. He ducked lower, and it wasn’t until his hand shoved on Damian’s back that the boy mirrored the action.

“I don’t know how we’re going to get close enough now,” Heymann muttered.

But then, his eyes slid over to his small partner. He toyed with the chain around his wrist. “Or maybe we don’t both need to get close.”

Abruptly—or maybe it was just too fast for Damian to react—Heymann reeled his leash in until he was squatting directly next to him. Something in Damian’s mind told him to panic, but the bigger part wanted to sink closer into the larger man. He was _warm_ , he blocked the wind and Damian could feel a little bit of heat coming off of his abdomen. He resisted, barely, the urge to reach a hand out and feel.

There was a metallic clang, and Damian watched as the end of the leash fell to the ground. By the time he had processed it Heymann had already clamped his big hands around either of his small shaking arms. “Be a good Robin,” he whispered. “ _Distract_.”

And with enough force to move an elephant, the man threw him away from the relative shelter of the greenhouse.

Damian landed on his shoulder, but his momentum on the ice sent him tumbling another five feet before he came to rest. When he sat up again, head reeling, snow stuck to his skin and uniform the way wet sand stuck to his boots when he was a child.

He had hardly figured out where his feet were before there were shouts, and then bullets again, skittering off the pavement much too close for comfort. Damian grit his teeth and scooted himself back. He was a sitting duck, colors bright enough to draw attention from half a mile away.

It took three incredibly frustrating tries to get back on his feet. The bullets slowed to a stop; the shooters probably thought they had hit him. After another minute, he managed to stagger back behind the greenhouse.

Just in time to hear a loud thud. He whipped his head around and took a moment to put the sound together with the roof hatch a few feet from the other side of the greenhouse. Heymann must have escaped through that, while Damian was distracting the shooters.

But that meant Damian was alone.

He reeled with the revelation.

Maybe it was a test. Heymann was probably waiting for him, just under the roof hatch. Definitive proof he had Robin under his thumb. Damian bristled at the thought.

He looked wistfully toward the roof ledge, back from the direction they had arrived. He could try to run for it, make it back to a safehouse. Or the penthouse. Grayson.

But Damian was a realist. His balance was failing, probably as a result of the frigid air that stole his breath and his feet and his hands. He had no doubt that, if Heymann was listening for him, the man would catch him before he made it to the ledge.

And, at this rate, he would freeze to death before he reached safety, anyway.

He waited, listening for any sound that may indicate the shooters getting closer. Or Heymann, under the roof hatch.

He winced at the memory of the belt snapping.

It was quiet as he rose on shaky feet. Mind made up, he threw his energy into his numb feet and commanded them to _run_.

His collar pulled taught before he reached the hatch.

He fell backward, cracking his head against the roof. He coughed the best he could through his nose.

He rolled to his stomach and wriggled up next to the greenhouse. He followed his leash with his eyes until he found the other end, looking for whatever it had been caught on.

His stomach plummeted when he found it. It was wrapped around the water pipe supplying the greenhouse, and one of Heymann’s cheap padlocks held it in place.

He was stuck.

There was a shout, more shouting this time than last time, and this time they were closer. Damian’s heart began to race faster, and he searched frantically for the lockpicks where they had landed in the snow earlier. He found two pieces, but when he reached he couldn’t get his fingers to grip the tiny instruments. His hands were completely numb.

He tried looping an arm around the water pipe and threw his body weight against it. It didn’t budge.

Another bullet—two bullets—passed overhead, shattering more glass from the greenhouse just to his left. There was no shelter here. Damian pushed—and he realized how _exhausted_ he was—against one of the smaller shattered panes, and it crumpled in on itself easily. With great effort, he wriggled inside.

It was only marginally warmer inside than out, but Damian found he wasn’t minding the cold as much anymore. The structure was empty, except for a single raised bed in the center. He rose enough to peek over the edge of the blockade to inspect the dirt. There was nothing planted, which would make sense because even a greenhouse couldn’t fight a Gotham winter.

If he closed his eyes, he could imagine the building filled with the most beautiful plants, greens and purples and pinks. But he tried not to close his eyes, because he was tired and that was a big warning sign for hypothermia, which he was certain was setting in. If he fell asleep now, he might not wake up.

And what a disappointing way to die.

A loud noise startled him out of his thoughts, and he searched the building for the source, thinking it must have been a cat or some other animal also taking refuge from the cold.

A light shone through the glass. Damian ducked, crouching in the shadows like he had been taught to his entire life. He knew from a detached place that he needed to run, or hide. Hiding sounded like a much better option, because he felt so _tired_.

The greenhouse glass was too dirty to see through, luckily. The circle of the light passed over Damian several times without pause, and flicked away. Damian let himself relax. He leaned back against the frost-gilded wooden sides of the raised bed and watched the fog roll out of his nostrils like the dragons on his mother’s broaches.

But then, something tugged at his collar.

“What’s this?” somebody whispered.

A more insistent tug. Damian winced at the pull but resisted. There was nothing good on the other side of the greenhouse wall.

He watched with removed horror as the flashlight shone through the hole he had made for himself, landing directly on him. The silhouette of some thug was barely visible past the bright light. “What do we have here?” he crooned. “A little bird?”

He yanked on the chain hard enough to send Damian toppling to the side. He was too exhausted to catch himself.

A second voice joined the first. “I don’t like this. If there’s a bird, there’s got to be a Bat. We should report it.”

“Nah, look at ‘em.” The thug said. “Strung up, all alone. You’re the bait for people like us, huh?”

Now that he was lying down, Damian didn’t feel like getting himself back up. He fought drooping eyelids, and realized he had lost when a wrist latched around his bad ankle and started to drag him back out of his hidey-hole. He only managed a sluggish resistance.

There was a deafening explosion. The roof beneath him rumbled, and the hand holding his ankle let go as though it had been burned.

“ _Fuck_. I told you we should have reported him.”

Two sets of footsteps retreated quickly, but Damian didn’t pay enough attention to tell which way they went.

Heymann would be back soon.

He could nap while he waited.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: forced nudity, forced bathing. There are no sexual touches.

The GCPD station was quiet. Gordon liked it that way; a quiet station meant a quiet Gotham. He set down the pen he had been using to go through the paperwork on his desk and checked his watch.

4:07 AM.

The chair creaked as he leaned back to look through the window. Fat snowflakes were drifting down, even more heavily than they had been earlier.

“The weatherman said it was supposed to get bad tonight.”

His attention shifted to his most recent body guard. Some kid, still fresh. Asked Gordon to call him ‘Danny.’ He had been trying to fill the silence with pointless small talk for the last several hours.

“I heard.”

Silence fell back over the room. Danny shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

A black shadow slipped past Gordon’s window. Eyes narrowed, without turning back around, he raised his voice to ask the young officer in the room, “Where do you live, again?”

Danny’s shifting stopped. “South Hinkley.”

Gordon nodded, long enough to give the illusion he was considering something. “Why don’t you go ahead and get home before the bridges ice over?”

Danny paused. “Are you sure?”

Gordon shrugged. “Any criminal smart enough to pull off this blackmail is smart enough not to go out in _that_.” He let his eyes soften. “Besides, I have a feeling I’m going to get stuck here for the next day or two. Get back home to your wife.”

Danny offered a genuine smile. “Thank you, sir.” As he stood to leave, he tacked on, “Let me know if you need anything.”

“I will. Safe driving.”

He waited five beats after the door had shut to address the shadow in the corner. “What did you find?”

A thumbdrive landed on the desk in front of him. He sighed, cleaning the lenses of his glasses before inserting it into his computer and clicking the first file that loaded.

It took him a minute to figure out it was a screenshot. Officer Michael Heymann, staring into the computer screen. The shelves in the background matched the shelves behind Gordon’s desk. He narrowed his eyes. “How did you get this?”

“Your hunch was correct. Michael Heymann has been working from the inside. I have reason to believe he has been covering his trails as the pseudo-blackmailer.” The dark figure behind him started. He didn’t answer Gordon’s question, which was typical, but Gordon wasn’t as annoyed as he was concerned with his tone.

“There’s something else?”

Batman stepped around the side of the desk. “The records he sent to GPD when he applied were falsified.” He pointed to a folder on the screen. “The real records. Pulled from the Allenwood Police Department’s backup database.”

Gordon hummed and opened the files. Sure enough, he recognized the signature on the official documents from his own investigations. But these told a much different story than the ones GCPD had on file for the stray officer. Failed pscyh evaluations, starting about five years after earning his badge. Followed by a dishonorable discharge. There was no note stating why, which was uncommon. Gordon flicked through some of the other documents. The notes from the psych evaluations remained in possession of the psychologist on a separate, private server, but apparently Batman knew no boundaries.

A few months before his first failed psych evaluation, there was a note about a personality change.

_Suggested extending vacation; Michael’s symptoms do not appear to be getting better._

It lined up with a noted uptick in unnecessary use of force in the other documents.

Gordon skimmed the rest of the shrink’s notes. They were thorough, a chronical of the man steadily becoming angrier, more rigid.

The final note simple read: _Michael refuses therapy. Suggesting immediate dismissal._

Finally, feeling like he had gotten the gist of the data, he rubbed his eyes under his glasses. When he turned to pop his back, he was surprised to see that the masked vigilante behind him. “You’re still here.”

Something about the man, normally so composed and outright stony, was off. His shoulders were tense under his cape. He was even quieter than usual. He was acting more like his predecessor.

Gordon searched the mask for a clue, but found nothing. Instead, he asked, “Do you know what happened? Why he started failing the psych exams?”

Batman’s jaw clenched. He nodded curtly, then brushed Gordon aside to conduct an internet search.

Gordon squinted at the screen over his glasses. It was a news article, from almost eighteen years ago. “I don’t understand why—oh.”

_A cross-state car chase came to a violent halt early Wednesday morning when the driver ran a red light at an intersection, hitting two other cars. Police reported that the driver was underage and intoxicated, and was fleeing criminal charges in neighboring Gotham. Four cars were involved in the accident, closing two lanes of westbound traffic and three fatalities, including the driver. Four more unstable victims are being treated at the nearby Allenwood Hospital._

Gordon frowned, letting the information sit with him. “He lost somebody.”

“His wife, Josie, died in the crash. Their son died in the hospital a day later.”

Gordon sucked a breath in through his teeth.

“There’s more,” Batman pressed. It seemed as though, now that he had started, he was picking up momentum. “Coroner’s reports on the wife—” Gordon bit back a sound of protest. Batman knew nothing of privacy. “—showed bilateral bruising around the neck.”

“A seatbelt wouldn’t cause that,” Gordon mumbled.

Batman nodded. “There were also older bruises on her arms and back.”

Gordon stood, whatever sympathy he had evaporating in an instant. “You think Michael was abusing her?”

Batman nodded.

“That son of a bitch,” Gordon muttered. “Thanks for the evidence. This should be enough to put out a warrant for his arrest.”

Batman raised a hand. “Wait. I need more time.”

“Why?”

Batman’s demeanor shifted. “He’s also a Batman impersonator,” the vigilante growled.

Gordon blinked, taking a moment to dismiss the irony in the statement. Then the realization struck him with ice in his veins. “You think he has Robin?”

Batman clenched his fist so hard a finger cracked. “I know it.”

A dark shadow seemed to settle over Batman’s features. Gordon hadn’t seen the expression on the kid—the man—since. . . ever. He didn’t know details of the Bats’ lives, but he saw enough to know how close this new Batman and the newest, angry little Robin were.

Batman turned to climb back out the window, but Gordon called, “Batman, wait.”

The man turned around, shoulders stiffer, posture poised to attack something.

“We’ll get him back,” he said. “And don’t do anything stupid; there’s already a warrant out for your arrest.”

Batman scarcely nodded before slipping out into the night.

* * *

He was on fire.

Damian tried to get away from the burning heat beneath and around him, but big hands pushed him down. For a terrifying moment, his nose went under water, and he shot his head back and up and tried to gasp for breath. He only managed to choke himself on his gag.

“There you are.” One of the hands pat his shoulder, a little too heavy to be comforting. “I knew that would work.”

Damian opened his eyes only to find himself blindfolded. What water he hadn’t swallowed ran out of his nose and down his face. He couldn’t wipe any of it away; his hands were cuffed together behind his back again.

Something warm and fleshy rested against his forehead, and Damian tried to pull away, but there was nowhere to go. Whatever this container was, it wasn’t a bath. It was too small, and the sides were perfectly vertical. It forced Damian’s knees to bend almost to his chest, and where his arms were restrained he had to lean forward into his knees.

Heymann clucked his tongue in disapproval. “Still a little on the chilly side. I’ll give you a few more minutes to defrost.”

Defrost? He didn’t feel cold. In fact, everything _burned_. It felt like the water was scalding his skin. Damian squirmed, wishing his hands were free so he could pull himself out. His foot hit a drain in the middle of the floor.

He wasn’t wearing shoes.

With a sinking feeling, he realized he wasn’t wearing _any_ clothes.

Face burning, he curled over his knees as much as he could to hide himself. As though Heymann hadn’t already seen everything. He had taken off his Robin suit when he had first kidnapped—and Damian’s mind tripped over the word—him, after all.

“You did well tonight,” Heymann said. “I was able to set all of the bombs, as planned. The people keeping watch alerted the rest of the gang that there was a distant threat coming from the south—you—but they weren’t expecting me to get there so quickly.”

Damian’s stomach twisted. Vaguely, he could recall an explosion. How many people had died?

“You were the perfect distraction,” Heymann whispered, almost with reverence.

Damian shuddered, only half caused by becoming reacquainted with his own icy hands.

His extremities were rapidly warming. It caused a similar feeling as when limbs fell asleep, but magnified. Pin-pricks of pain licked down his limbs. On top of it all, his body had decided shivering was necessary again.

Last time he was shivering this hard, there were others there, right? Just before he fell asleep, as though he were a toddler up past their bedtime? He should have gotten somebody’s attention. Heymann wasn’t there, Damian could have ripped off the damned duct tape and warned the criminals what Heymann was doing. He could have saved so many lives, but instead he was _afraid_.

It was shameful.

Heymann lifted Damian’s chin up, away from his knees. “You did so well. Aren’t you proud?”

Damian swallowed against his dry mouth. He was starting to feel light-headed. He was warming up too fast. All he wanted was to get out of the bath. Back into clothes, even the fake Robin uniform.

“Answer me.”

He nodded.

Damian jumped when the man ran a hand through his hair, mussing it out of the shape he had so carefully styled it the last several days. “While you’re here, may as well get you cleaned up.”

Damian stiffened, but before he could protest more hot water was flooding the sink, from a faucet directly in the middle. He could feel steam rising and sticking to his face where it was exposed. The water smelled like old pipes.

He jumped again when a hand, smoothed by a soap that smelled strongly of artificial coconut, ran down his shoulders and back. Every muscle tensed as the soap was worked into a lather there, scraping away layers of dirt and sweat and dried blood. He hissed when soap stung in reopened gashes.

Heymann worked down his back and arms, then pushed Damian back so he could pull each leg partially out of the water and scrub them.

Then he started Damian’s front, and had to keep one hand pressing Damian back to the wall of the tub to keep the boy from curling into a defensive ball again as he worked his way down. Damian was shaking harder by the time the man scrubbed to his naval.

Heymann’s hand pulled away before it could reach any lower. A small mercy. “I’m no creep,” the man muttered.

Damian wanted to disagree.

His breath caught in a choke, instead, when the hand returned to his neck and slid against the burns around his collar. He jerked his head away, but it only made Heymann grip his collar while he wiped at the skin surrounding it.

“Hold still,” he whispered. “This will just take a second.”

Damian’s breath was speeding up, his heart beating too fast. The unexpected softness in his voice was making his head spin. Or maybe it was the hot water.

Heymann didn’t spend much more time on his neck. Damian was thankful, but a part of him worried. The water couldn’t be sanitary, smelling like this. And Heymann couldn’t have thoroughly cleaned the wounds in that short period of time.

Then Heymann was running his hands through his hair again. His fingers stroked through it, releasing tangles and massaging Damian’s scalp as he went. He could hear the soap being worked into a lather. He fought his lightheadedness and the urge to relax under the gentle touches. He was just tired, after the hypothermia.

“I used to have a kid, you know.”

A noise of surprise burst from Damian’s throat. His fingers twitched behind him.

“He would be in college now, I think,” he continued.

The hands left Damian’s hair, and there was the sound of metal clicking over him. “Head back,” Heymann ordered, but without any bark. And the side of Heymann’s hand cupped Damian’s hairline, lightly coaxing his head to tilt when a spray of water began to rinse the soap from his hair. It would have kept the water and soap out of his eyes, had he not been wearing the blindfold.

Damian remembered, vaguely, that it was something his mother used to do. He wondered if Father would have done it.

When he was done rinsing, Heymann set the water nozzle aside. “That should be long enough. You look awake.”

It was all the warning Damian got before arms looped under his torso and his legs, lifting him out of the sink. He squirmed in the hold, the air suddenly freezing against his warmed skin. Heymann’s grip tightened, and then Damian recognized the feeling of being carried.

Judging by the sound of Heymann’s steps, Damian could tell when they passed from the room with the sink—tile floor—to another, more open space—wood. It was the open space with a door to the basement and a door to the outside. He only briefly entertained the idea of struggling, kicking out of Heymann’s grip and making a break for it. But he couldn’t get out of the blindfold, so couldn’t open the locks, and he was still _naked_ and wasn’t looking forward to going outside again anytime soon.

That was why he remained still in Heymann’s arms as the man descended the steps to the basement. Not because he was afraid.

“Hold still,” Heymann said, setting Damian down on his feet. He untied the blindfold so he could look Damian in the eyes as he warned, “Don’t try anything. You know the consequences.”

Damian nodded.

Heymann made quick work of redressing him. Damian was glad, because the basement was cold when he was wet. The last thing he reattached was Damian’s leash. The other end was secured to the steps, but Heymann left plenty of slack for movement.

“Come here,” Heymann beckoned.

Every instinct told him not to, but Damian complied. Hesitantly. He stopped just shy of Heymann’s arm length, but the man leaned forward to pull him in further. He inspected Damian’s jaw, the tape on it. “The water must have dissolved the adhesive.” He pulled out a pair of scissors, and when Damian stepped back Heymann grabbed his leash to hold him close.

The next thing he knew, Damian’s mouth was free. He immediately spat out the oversized mouthguard. His mouth and lips were dry, his jaw sore from disuse.

Heymann _tsk_ ed at him. “I’m not rinsing that off before I put it back in,” he scolded. He bent to retrieve it, and set it on one of the steps. “I’ll be right back.”

As he went up the steps, Damian’s tongue flicked out to try and wet his cracked lips. It wasn’t working; everything was too dry. “Wait,” he called.

His eyes widened. His own voice was foreign to him, brittle and raspy from the repeated abuse to his neck and disuse. Still, it was enough to make the man turn around, eyebrow raised.

“Water,” Damian requested in a rasp.

Heymann’s eyes raked up and down Damian’s frame. He nodded. “I’ll bring _one_ cup. And you have to promise not to fight the gag.”

He detested the idea. “I pro…” Damian coughed to clear his throat. “Promise.”

Heymann, eyes narrowed, nodded. “I’ll hold you to that.” Then he made his way up the stairs, and the door slammed shut behind him, leaving Damian alone in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is going to be short. :)))


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said this was going to be short, but words got away from me again. Sorry?  
> Also, heads up: this chapter has a lot of violence. Like, one-sided, semi-graphic violence.

Heymann returned after only a few minutes, slamming the door shut behind him more forcefully than usual. Damian jumped, having nearly dozed off leaning against the lowest step.

“Sleeping on the job, Robin?” Heymann. . . joked? Damian wasn’t sure. He shook his head just in case. Heymann wore the same slightly-smug face he had grown accustomed to, but something in his posture was off. Stiff. In one hand he held a fresh roll of duct tape. The other arm was behind his back, and Damian’s eyes stuck to it in a silent plea that it was just the water he had asked for.

“Back to the wall,” Heymann ordered.

Damian’s eyes narrowed, but he was too tired to act on his suspicion. He rose awkwardly, unable to use his hands to steady himself when his vision swayed slightly, and stepped backward until his bound hands touched the wall.

“Sit.”

Damian slid to the ground without a single ounce of the grace that had been bred into him.

Heymann revealed his hand, and Damian felt something loosen at the sight of a cup. It was just the water. The glass was grubby, and the water slightly tinted yellow, but when Heymann rose it to his lips he drank. It tasted like mildew and copper.

Heymann spoke while Damian fought the urge to gag. “I have big goals, you know. I’ve been planning all of this for a very long time.”

Damian’s eyes flicked up to Heymann’s face. The man’s eyes were focused somewhere on the wall. Heymann didn’t pull the glass away until he had drained the whole thing. “What do you say?” he asked.

He swore it was the weird tension that made him immediately reply with a “Thank you.” His voice sounded only slightly better. The water left a film of small grit on his teeth and an aftertaste that made him cough.

Heymann’s knees popped as he stood. Damian started to roll onto his knees to rise, but a hand on his shoulder shoved him back down. “No, stay here.”

The knot in his stomach tightened again. Damian’s hands twisted in the shackles behind him, even as the movement tore open scabs and blisters. Heymann walked to the stairs and set the glass on a step to pick up the gag again instead. But instead of bringing it back to Damian, he rolled it between his hands.

“With all of that planning, did you think I wouldn’t take precautions?” He looked at Damian squarely, and Damian froze at the malice in his eyes. “Do you think I’m _stupid_?” He punctuated the last word by throwing the mouth guard at the wall next to Damian.

“ _Do you?_ ”

Damian scrambled to his feet when Heymann marched toward him. “What are you—”

He didn’t react fast enough. Heymann’s fist slammed into his shoulder sent him straight back into the wall. Damian’s head bounced only once before Heymann gripped his collar, lifting him until his toes were scrabbling for the floor.

“I told you. I _warned_ you not to try anything again.”

“I didn’t!” Damian coughed, trying to make room for his words to raise in volume. “I swear, I—” Heymann cut him off by shoving him into the wall again. Damian had to blink spots out of his eyes.

“Don’t lie to me,” Heymann growled, releasing Damian into a limp, shaking heap on the floor. “You think I don’t have security? I turned my phone on upstairs, and it _blew up_ with notifications alerting me that somebody _broke into my apartment._ ”

Damian’s eyes widened.

Heymann didn’t notice, but made himself busy unlocking Damian’s leash from around the steps and reeling him in like a fish out of water. Damian clambered to find his feet so he wouldn’t be choked.

“You _brat!_ ” Heymann heaved, as Damian was dragged within reach. Heymann dropped the leash, but before Damian could roll out of the way a foot landed on his stomach, pinning him in place and forcing all of his air out. His bound hands dug into his back.

Heymann shoved a phone in his face, and Damian could barely make out the signature pointy ears of the cowl through watery eyes.

Heymann pressed more weight into his foot, making Damian grunt. “I don’t know how you reached him, but _hear me_. Batman isn’t going to save you! There’s a warrant out for his arrest; even the commissioner can’t ignore that! The second he goes to Gordon with evidence against me he’ll be locked up in Arkham where he belongs.”

Damian got enough air to protest, “I didn’t—” Heymann stomped on his chest, and there was a dull snap as a rib broke. Damian squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in a painful breath.

“You stupid little _shit_!” Heymann lifted his foot again, but this time Damian managed to roll out of the way before it slammed down. Heymann yelled in rage. “ _You aren’t getting away from me_!” The glass of water hit the wall and shattered into a million tiny shards.

Damian’s leash pulled taught over him, and he was hauled upright. A fist glanced off his jaw, and Damian tasted blood. A second hit threw him back into the floor.

This wasn’t anything like he’d seen Heymann before. The man was usually controlled in his violence; this was a reaction to his anger. His _fear_. There was no finesse, no plan.

It was dangerous.

Damian scrambled backward blindly using his elbows as leverage. Heymann lunged to grab him, and Damian threw his legs up to kick him in the face. As the man fell back, Damian repeated the motion, this time using the momentum to roll backward. As he stood, he looped his arms in front of him.

He was able to block Heymann’s next punch. It would have hit him in the temple. He took grim satisfaction in watching blood bead up where he had hit the manacles, but the force of the hit paired with his terrible balance still pushed him back, and when he tried to dodge the next hit, his back brushed against the wall again.

It didn’t matter. Heymann grabbed his leash and yanked down, pulling him off balance. Heymann’s knee slammed into his face, then again into his stomach. And again.

He finagled his hands around to catch the fourth time, but it only served to crush them between his chest and the impenetrable wall of muscle. He felt, rather than heard, something else snap in his chest, and his vision whited out for a full second.

Heymann dropped him, and he fell like a sack of flour. Breathless, _painful_ flour.

His attention only shifted when he heard the belt unbuckling. At the soft clicking, he tensed, and shifted to roll away.

“Nah-ah,” Heymann tutted. His foot landed on the leash, just next to Damian’s head. He was stuck.

“No,” Damian whispered.

“You will learn,” Heymann said, sliding the belt off.

“Please.” Damian clutched his hands, shaking violently, into his chest. This time he didn’t feel cold. “Don’t.”

The belt whistled through the air. Damian braced himself, but he wasn’t prepared for the hit to the backs of his legs. They twitched in reaction to the unexpected stripe of fire running across the back of his calves. Damian hissed.

The second strike landed across his shoulders, the buckle wrapping around his left arm and swiping up his neck when Heymann withdrew. This time Damian couldn’t hold back a yelp.

There was pressure at his neck that couldn’t be coming from his collar. Damian thought he was going to choke, but then the cape ripped and his head dropped back to the floor.

Heymann snapped the belt down more rapidly than Damian could breathe, more times than he could count, and more randomly than he could defend. After a minute he pulled himself into a curl, hands covering his head to protect his face, knees covering his stomach and chest. Every time the belt and buckle landed his breath caught, sending sparks of pain through his abused ribs and throat.

He felt something trickle down his side. Heymann didn’t slow down.

“Plea—please.” He had to try twice, his words stolen by the belt. “Stop.”

Heymann was breathing hard. He paused long enough Damian chanced a look at his face. His chest and shoulders moved with his breaths, and his face and neck were bright red. His face was still twisted with fury.

The belt slid out of his hand.

With an angry howl, Heymann launched his foot into Damian’s stomach and knees. Damian tensed, full-body, with the wave of pain that followed. “Stop!” he gasped.

He didn’t.

Damian bit his tongue so hard it began to bleed. He pushed his head into his hands until the manacle edges cut into his forehead. His toes scraped the floor with every spasm of his legs.

The foot came down on his side, under his arm. The ensuing _crack_ was drowned out only by Damian’s scream.

Blinking through tears now, he saw Heymann’s foot raise again. “ _Batman_!” he yelled.

The foot paused.

“Batman, please, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I won’t do it again. I prom. . .” Damian hadn’t drawn in enough breath to verbalize the rest of the words, and he was reluctant to inhale again.

He could hear Heymann breathing hard over him. He watched as the foot lowered to the ground, its partner sliding off of his leash. Still, Damian didn’t move. He didn’t know if he could.

“You’re right.” Heymann knelt down next to Damian. A large hand pulled Damian’s hands away from his face, and Damian realized he had a death grip on his hair when his scalp protested.

Heymann put a hand in Damian’s hair, smoothing out the places he had destroyed that aspect of his uniform. “Oh, Robin,” he sighed. His voice was suddenly soft again, the words coming out between the breaths Heymann was still trying to catch. “I’m going to need your help with something.”

Damian squeezed his eyes shut. _I can’t_ , he wanted to say. His mouth remained closed.

“I need to kill the Batman.”

* * *

Dick took the turn at a much higher speed than was safe. The Batmobile slid several feet before the wheels gripped the pavement and sent him surging down the road toward his destination.

Damian.

It had taken him all day, cross-referencing the real documents on Michael Heymann with old news stories and scanned-in government records. The man had almost no family left, nobody to call and interrogate. But he had caught a lucky break: his grandmother-in-law’s obituary mentioned the restaurant in Gotham where she used to work before retiring in Allenwood.

The building had since flooded, been abandoned, and condemned. And Heymann passed it every day along his patrol route.

Dick didn’t want to think. He felt a ball of fire in his gut that built with every passing thought of how _easy_ it had been for Michael. Using his position as body guard to monitor the GCPD’s progress with the blackmail case he had set up and the crimes he would take down as ‘the Batman.’ Popping inside for a quick visit with Damian while he was supposed to be patrolling.

He pushed the gas a little harder at the memory of the blueprints of the building. There was a basement, without windows and with only one door. No insulation, but deep enough underground nobody would hear anything.

Damian was there. He _had_ to be.

He saw the building up ahead and wasted no time with braking. He opened the roof of the car and leapt out, trusting the cape to catch him and the car’s AI to slow itself down. Every window and door in the front was boarded shut. He knew there was a side door, in the alleyway that Heymann probably used. But this side would have less security.

He pulled out a laser and cut a neat hole through the wood and glass. When it was large enough, he shot his grappeling hook through and let it pull the frame of the entire window out, cheap wood included.

There was no time to waste.

The restaurant inside was dark and humid. The carpet stank of mold and mildew. Dick spent just long enough to scan the open room for any life—nothing but a few broken chairs and tables in the corner—before sprinting toward the back, where he knew the door to the basement to be. On his way through the hallway to the back he passed the side door, held in place with five locks. There was paint scraped off the door jamb, and Dick didn’t dwell on how small the fingers had to be to make that shape groove. He also passed the door to a sparsely-furnished kitchen, only the sink, a table, and a gaping walk-in fridge giving clue to its previous function.

And there was the door to the basement.

He forced himself to slow down, taking a few deep breaths to calm his heart so he could hear. There was no light peeking out from the gap beneath the door. He tried scanning through the floor, but as he suspected there was too much interference.

He pressed an ear against the door to listen for voices.

_Pl-please. Stop_.

It was faint, but even quiet it made Dick’s hair stand on end. It was Damian.

He could piece out the sound of. . . a whip? His lips pulled back in a snarl. That _fucker_.

The door was unlocked, but he didn’t waste time opening it. He ran straight through, using the board to surf down the steps and build momentum for a surprise attack.

Lights flicked on automatically with his arrival.

The room was empty.

_Crack!_ Dick whipped his head around at the unmistakable sound of a bone breaking. Ice flooded his veins when Damian _screamed_.

_“Batman!”_

The sounds stopped suddenly, leaving him with only the sound of his heart and something dripping in the corner. He looked around, took in the bare walls. The floor. The flecks of half-dried blood, smeared in places.

_“Please.” A grunt. “Don’t.”_

He followed the sound of the snapping whip to the corner under the stairs. A phone lay on the floor. It came alive under his hand, showing the blank recording playback screen.

_“Ple-please. Stop.”_

Dick barely restrained himself long enough to send the playback to the Computer as evidence. Then he whirled around and threw the phone at the wall as hard as he could. It shattered, joining the glass already scattered along the floor.

Damian wasn’t here. Something must have tipped Michael off.

How late was he? Minutes? Hours?

Dick swallowed. _Days_?

This was just another dead end.

He felt himself slipping into that place he found after his parents died. The place that gaped like a maw when he lost Bruce.

What would he do if he lost Damian, too?

_Beep_.

Dick’s eyes widened.

_Ba-ba-ba. Beep-beep-beep. Ba-ba-ba._

He fumbled with the cowl, pressing the button on the communicator opening the line.

“Robin?”

The emergency distress signal continued its pattern. Dick bit his lip. Whoever was on the other side should be able to hear him through the communicator. He wasn’t convinced it was Damian.

He let the emergency signal continue as he sprint up the steps. Above ground, he had better signal, and a map of Gotham appeared across his vision, a bright red pulsing dot at the location of the distress signal.

“I’ve found your location.”

He leapt back through the window, into the waiting Batmobile. He white-knuckled the steering wheel.

“I’m on my way,” he promised, with threat dripping from the words.

He gunned the gas. The tires squealed before taking off toward the center of town.

There was no time to waste.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for fake-out number two. I promise it's the last one!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long! I've been working on grad school application stuff for the last month and time got away from me.
> 
> *Special thanks to @DawnsEternalLight, who, in my hour of need, inspired me with some incredible Dick & Damian cuddles!*  
> And a huge thanks to everyone who has been avidly following this story and leaving comments and kudos and yelling at me on discord and tumblr! (You know who you are ;) ) You guys are the reason I bother "wasting my time" doing something that won't impact my financial future haha. I've been so blown away by the response; you all make it worth it. Thank you!
> 
> This chapter was supposed to be the entire finale, but then it was too long and I figured I should leave a little more space between the emotional climaxes. So, the next chapter already has 2000 words written, and I (swear) it will be posted very soon!

Damian couldn’t tell whether the beacon was activated. Nervous fingers flipped the Robin insignia between hands, anxious for some verbal signal from Heymann that it had worked.

The silence was pierced suddenly by the beep of a watch alarm. Damian tensed in anticipation. His eyes darted back and forth, looking for some visual change he wouldn’t be able to see through the blindfold.

“Two minutes,” Heymann sighed. He _almost_ sounded reluctant as he pulled the leash another inch.

The collar dug into his neck, and Damian’s cough was stifled by the gag, complete with fresh duct tape. It hurt too much to straighten his ribs anymore, so he settled for rising on the balls of his feet. Not that it was much better; the position brought terrible sense memories of the hours he spent half-hanged in the basement several nights ago. But this time, his calves began to cramp after the first thirty seconds.

“There really isn’t much more slack here, brat. I hope you haven’t been lying to me.”

There was barely enough room for Damian to shake his head. The only sign the distress beacon is activated comes through the comm unit, which Heymann had tucked in his ear before beginning this entire ordeal. And after being electrocuted almost a week ago, it wasn’t clear whether the beacon or comm worked at all.

“Last chance,” Heymann warned. “Try again.”

Damian swallowed and focused on his hands again. His fingers stung, all over, for a reason he couldn’t confirm but guessed was leftover from frostbite; his toes throbbed the same way. Still, he visualized the insignia and tried activating the distress beacon again.

“Ah,” Heymann said, closer than Damian expected. He jumped, jarring his neck and every point where Heymann’s boot had hit his ribs in a white-hot flash of pain.

“I can hear something on the other end, some kind of beeping. The mic is muted?”

Damian nodded.

He felt reverberations travel down the leash into his collar as Heymann fiddled with the slack. “You know what happens if you’re lying to me.” A beep, all-too-familiar to Damian now. “Two minutes for him to answer.”

It only took one. Damian knew because Heymann let go of the leash to play with his hair again, fingers stopped by the knot of his blindfold.

After ten seconds, a gloved hand patted his cheek condescendingly. “He says he’s on his way. Good job, Robin.”

Damian shuddered.

“I’ll take _this_.” It didn’t take much for Heymann to pry the insignia out of his weak hands. He tracked the sound of it bouncing off the floor, and then cringed when a sudden stomp made it _crunch_. Damian clenched his empty digits into fists behind him. “The GPS was in that thing, right? And he should have an idea of where we are by now?”

Damian nodded.

He heard the leash moving, and suddenly the collar wasn’t digging into his trachea any more. Exhaustion quickly caught up with his relief, and he dropped to the floor.

He heard the whooshing of the door in whatever room they were in—Damian had been blindfolded since leaving the basement and had no clue other than the slight chill and the strange echoey quality to sounds to clue him into a location. Heymann was leaving.

Damian grunted as he pulled himself upright. His entire torso throbbed with every breath, no matter how much he tried to limit his movement. Without his hands, his eyesight, or even his words, he was helpless without the man.

He hated him for it, even as he shifted his weight to his knees to attempt to stand.

“No, you’ve got to stay here,” Heymann said, his voice coming from halfway out the door. Damian tried to get his feet beneath him before the approaching footsteps arrived, but Heymann just scooped him up under his arms and half-dragged him until his back hit a narrow pole.

His leash rattled, but wherever it was moved, there was enough slack Damian didn’t feel it. His heart began to beat faster.

“I left plenty of slack, just as precaution,” Heymann confirmed. “But I wouldn’t move around too much.” A hand pat Damian’s scabbed knees. “I’ve got you on a pressure trigger. If your weight leaves it, the commissioner’s blackmailer is going to follow through with his threats, if you know what I mean.”

Damian’s muscles tensed. His hands wrapped around the pole behind himself, just for something grounding.

Hand in his hair again, smoothing the style. Straightening his collar, and the folds on his shoes. “Too bad about the cape,” Heymann muttered.

The man’s knees popped as he stood. “Wish me luck, kid. This will all be over soon.”

* * *

This late, and in this weather, there were few trains running in Gotham’s Central Train Station, and even fewer civilians willing to ride them. Dick took only the barest of precautions before dropping through one of the station’s many skylights, cape billowing behind him to pool at his feet as he landed silently on the old marble floors.

It only took a quick glance at the lone man smoking a joint in an architectural nook to send him scampering toward the exit, drugs forgotten in his haste.

It was fair, Dick thought. He felt every bit as terrifying as his predecessor had looked in the cowl.

The emergency beacon could only be activated by Damian, and the boy would only stoop to using it under threat or in extreme need. Either option pointed to this being a trap.

And the distress signal was lost only seconds after he was able to determine its source.

Bruce had trained him to approach this kind of situation with a carefully created and executed plan; the worry and _fury_ in his gut urged him to barrel the Batmobile through the station and into the ex-cop. The only thing keeping him from following through was the thought of Damian hidden away where he wouldn’t be found.

He had to find Damian first. Then he could make Michael pay.

He unsheathed a Batarang, just in case.

A quick scan with his thermal vision confirmed nobody else was left in this terminal. Odd, considering there was a night guard on duty that should have been passing through within the last two minutes.

The reason was clear after he turned the corner toward the steps. The guard was left on the ground, his neck at a lethally odd angle. Dick took a moment to confirm he was dead.

The terminal speakers crackled. _“Looking for something?”_

Dick’s breath caught before smoothing out again. The voice sounded almost exactly like Bruce; maybe with a cold. It made something in his heart twinge, but he pushed it down to deal with later.

He silently closed the guard’s eyes and stood, finding and facing one of the many security cameras dotting the ceiling. Bruce Wayne had helped design the strategic security to deter criminal activity in Gotham’s public transportation. Michael would be able to watch his every move.

Dick activated his comm. “You’re in the control room.”

A laugh, something dark and without humor. _“At least you’re not an idiot, then.”_

“Where is Robin?” he growled into the comm.

The control room. Central to the station, on the next floor down. He slipped through a door marked ‘Employees Only’ and made use of the extra stairway there. More direct.

_“Don’t worry about the brat. I’d be more worried about yourself.”_

“Where is he,” Dick repeated, this time loud enough his voice echoed across the tiled hall.

_“He’s out of the way,”_ Michael said. Dick frowned. “ _He_ _made a mistake, one he’s paying for. That’s why we’re here.”_

Dick rounded the corner to be met with the three-inch-thick steel door he was looking for. He didn’t bother trying the handle. It would be locked, and fire code meant it would swing outward. Instead, he followed a path around the room to the bulletproof glass windows lining the other side.

There he was. Sitting in a rolling chair, in front of all of the screens Dick couldn’t see from his angle.

Dick wasn’t phased by the Batman suit; it was the little details he immediately picked up on that were _different_ that disturbed him. There was a metal brace around the man’s left wrist, a loop connected. Like he had something could attach there, normally. And metal studs lined each knuckle.

His blood boiled at the memory of the voice recording left for him at the abandoned restaurant. He had no doubt the gloves had been used on Damian at some point.

“Michael Heymann,” Dick said. His voice dripped with venom, echoing back through his comm.

The man sitting on the other side of the glass didn’t look surprised, but the smirk dropped off his face. “Batman,” he muttered. He didn’t need to use the terminal speakers anymore. “Or are you still called that? Did you change that, too, after you got rid of the _real_ Batman?”

“Tell me where Robin is.” Dick narrowed his eyes. “And I’ll let you off with all of your limbs _intact_.”

The man on the other side of the glass had the audacity to _grin_. “That won’t be a problem. I know you’re aware of how much I know about you. You wouldn’t do anything like that. Too soft.”

Dick growled. “Try me.”

* * *

Terminal B was empty, except for the train at the end, just like Michael had said. Dick gave the surrounding area a cursory scan while he sprinted toward the only lit train car. A way to lure any potential passengers into that one, he gathered, with another wave of nausea.

The train doors whooshed open when he stepped in front of them. He stepped through.

“Robin,” Dick breathed. All thoughts of warning Robin about Michael’s plans vanished on sight.

The boy’s shoulders visibly stiffened at the sound. He was blindfolded, so Dick made sure to make his steps loud enough he could hear his approach.

“Thank _God_ ,” he muttered, a flood of relief making his voice more gravelly than Batman’s. He had half-expected him to be unconscious.

But that relief was quickly replaced with something heated. Robin was. . .”Oh,” he whispered.

He was dressed in a budget old-fashioned Robin costume, scaly green shorts included. The tunic and shorts left plenty of skin bare, revealing dark purple swelling and abrasions up and down the length of each leg and arm.

Dick crouched to cup a hand around Damian’s face, at least what he could see of it between the blindfold and _layers_ of duct tape around his mouth. The boy flinched back so hard his head clanged against the metal pole behind him.

“Careful, careful. It’s just me,” he assured.

The skin on one cheekbone was split. Dick let out a slow, angry breath when he slipped the blindfold up to reveal a black eye.

Damian leaned back, away from him, until he was able to blink his vision into focus. Perhaps miraculously, his pupils were normal, despite the knots Dick found on the back of his head.

Damian’s shoulders fell from his ears. Something that sounded suspiciously like a muffled sob burned Dick’s ears.

Dick used the edge of his Batarang to cut the duct tape around his mouth. “Shh,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.” When the tape was free, Damian leaned forward to spit out what looked like a mouth guard, made for an adult. Dick, disgusted, kicked it away.

“Batman,” Damian whispered.

Dick’s eyes tightened at the sound of his voice. He sounded like he had been gargling rocks. It had to be that damn _collar_. Who knew how long he had been wearing it?

“I. . . I thought—”

Dick pushed his cowl back so Damian could see him clearly. He wanted to pull him into a hug, but by the way Damian was holding himself, he suspected there were more injuries he couldn’t see hiding beneath the tunic. He settled for leaning forward—he didn’t miss the way Damian flinched anyway—and pressing a kiss against Damian’s hairline. “I’m so glad I’ve found you.”

He rested his forehead against Damian’s. Took a deep breath to steady himself. “I was so worried.”

Damian’s face pinched, stretching the dark purple swelling “Heymann?”

“Don’t worry about him.” Dick’s voice dropped another octave. “He’ll touch you again over my dead body.”

A warm breath ghosted across Dick’s nose, and he looked up to see something that looked like ‘that’s what I’m afraid of’ cross Damian’s face.

Dick leaned back. “Let’s get you out of here.” He pulled bolt cutters from his utility belt and carefully prodded around the collar. When he reached the other side and didn’t feel any locking mechanism, he leaned around the back to examine where the chain attached. “How does this thing—?”

He cut himself off, eyes catching on raised, red, irritated blisters surrounding a messy seam. His breath caught. He ran a thumb over the seam, and felt the bumps and ridges tell-tale of a crappy soldering job.

“It doesn’t,” Damian answered.

Dick, anger reignited, clenched his jaw. “That sick _bastard_.” With that news, he wasn’t surprised to find the cuffs around Damian’s wrists soldered on, either. “We’ll have to wait until we get to the Cave to take them off. I don’t want to risk reopening any of those burns.”

It wasn’t until after he had used the bolt cutters to cut the chain running between the shackles that he noticed that, though the boy’s fingers were wrapped around the pole tightly, nothing attached him to the pole otherwise.

“Robin, it’s okay.” He had to force his voice back into a quiet rumble; Damian was responding like the victims they met regularly on patrol. “You can let go.”

Damian shook his head. “I can’t,” he rasped.

Dick’s comm beeped, signaling movement in the hallways outside the terminal. They didn’t have much time. Heymann would be here any minute now. “I promise; it’s okay. We have to go.”

Damian squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “Bomb.”

Dick immediately flipped his vision to x-ray and scanned the surrounding car. “There’s nothing here.”

Damian’s eyes opened again, and he looked down at the floor and around. “But. Heymann said.”

Dick hooked his arms under Damian’s and lifted him. “Sorry, kiddo,” Dick winced in sympathy at Damian’s hiss of pain.

It wasn’t enough to stop the kid from fighting him. “No no no, I have to stay,” he pleaded with that terribly weak voice.

Then his feet cleared the floor.

Nothing happened.

Dick saw the moment that Damian knew he had been manipulated. The boy’s head dropped.

Dick shifted him higher, switching his weight to one arm. He was definitely lighter than he had been before disappearing. “It’s okay.” _It’s over_ , he wanted to say. But they both knew it was a lie. Dick’s hold tightened at the thought.

Damian didn’t protest the hold, except for a few winces when Dick moved too quickly. His head fell onto Dick’s shoulder. Dick wasted a precious second just holding him, wrapping his arm around his back, assuring himself that Damian was _safe_ , and _alive_.

Then he roused himself and picked up the bolt cutters to snap the chain _leashing_ his brother to the subway car.

Damian shifted in his arms, and Dick missed his words the first time.

“What?” he asked, moving Damian so he could see Damian’s mouth better to make out the faint words.

The boy’s face was determined. “Let me,” Damian said.

Dick nodded and handed the tools to him. Damian had to use two hands, and Dick had to keep himself from jumping to help when his hands started to shake violently with effort. But then there was a _snap_ , and the leash fell in half, only two feet hanging off the collar around Damian’s neck.

Damian’s eyes followed the trailing end, swinging in the air. For the first time since finding him, Damian relaxed.

Dick allowed himself the smallest smile. They didn’t need words. He pulled his cowl back over his face as Damian nestled his head back against his shoulder.

“I’ve got you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The moment you all have been waiting for! <3
> 
> (But at what cost? 3:)c )


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That took longer than I expected. Sorry, guys! It's twice the length as usual, though, so I hope that helps make up for it?
> 
> Disclaimer: I know nothing about ballistics, architecture, trains, or fighting. Forgive my comic book, hands-waving, "physics."
> 
> Warnings: vomiting, more heavy violence

_Dick allowed himself the smallest smile. They didn’t need words. He pulled his cowl back over his face as Damian nestled his head back against his shoulder._

_“I’ve got you.”_

No sooner had the words left his brother’s mouth than Damian jolted upright, spine rigid.

With a loud hiss, the train he had been on lurched. Damian watched it squeal out of the station with confusion. The trains weren’t supposed to run all night, and especially not in this weather.

It wasn’t until the train disappeared around a corner that Damian realized Grayson hadn’t moved from that spot. Something was wrong.

“Batman?” Damian whispered. The arms around them adjusted their hold, into something more stable.

And as the sound of the train receded, heavy footsteps took its place. Coming from down the terminal.

He twisted around to look, wincing as his ribs protested the movement.

Heymann was wearing a smug smile. He approached them at a leisurely pace, each of his steps jostling his armor and echoing off the stone walls of the hall. “You found my Robin,” he yelled to them, using his father’s voice. He didn’t sound worried. In fact, he seemed excited.

Damian couldn’t see his eyes through the white lenses of his cowl, but he could _feel_ his gaze sweeping up and down his frame. In response, his hands clenched behind Grayson’s neck, making his hold just a little bit stronger. He knew Heymann had noticed when the man’s predatory smile grew a little wider. “I’ll be taking him back now.”

Damian shuddered.

Suddenly, his view of the man was partially blocked. Grayson had angled his own body so that his free arm was more free, at the same time pulling Damian back just a little bit further from the man that had been tormenting him for a week.

It put Damian in the perfect position to stealthily reach toward Batman’s utility belt.

“No,” Grayson replied to Heymann. His voice rumbled through the armor against Damian’s chest. “You aren’t going to touch him.”

The arm holding him up tightened slightly, and Damian was thankful for the gesture. The fingers of his free hand dipped into the nearest compartment of Batman’s utility belt and reached for the smoke pellets he knew would be there—

His fingers grasped empty air.

“We’ll see about that.” Heymann snickered.

Damian dug into the next compartment. Batarangs. He thought he could still throw one—that compartment was also empty.

He suddenly realized that Grayson still hadn’t moved. He looked up to find his jaw locked and his eyes boring holes into Heymann’s forehead.

“Batman?” Damian asked again under his breath, just loud enough Grayson would hear, this time with more worry than confusion coloring the question.

Heymann must have seen the look on his face, because he laughed. The sound made Damian’s hair raise on end.

“He didn’t tell you?” the man asked. He pulled a knife from beneath his cape. “Pity.”

Damian wriggled in his brother’s hold, trying to get the older man to let go; empty utility belt meant fewer weapons, which meant Grayson would need backup. But his older brother’s free arm joined the first around Damian, holding him steady. “Robin, it’s okay,” he assured him.

Damian reached for the holster for the grapple gun. Empty. Anger and worry collided, twisting his gut into knots. With a painful heave, he pushed himself high enough to make eye contact with Heymann. “What did you do?” he croaked.

* * *

**ELEVEN MINUTES EARLIER**

“Tell me where Robin is.” Dick narrowed his eyes. “And I’ll let you off with all of your limbs _intact_.”

The man on the other side of the glass had the audacity to _grin_. “That won’t be a problem. I know you’re aware of how much I know about you. You wouldn’t do anything like that. Too soft.”

Dick growled. “Try me.”

He slammed a fist against the glass. It didn’t do more than make a loud noise, but he got some satisfaction out of watching Michael jump.

The other man recovered his composure quickly. “I intend to,” he snarked. “That brat of yours has picked up your bad habits. He’s almost useless to me.”

“What did you _do_?” Dick snarled.

“Nothing he didn’t deserve or expect. He knows the consequences of disobeying me.” Michael’s demeanor changed. “But it’s been a week, and the little shit still fights me on almost everything. He needs a reality check.”

“Tell me where he is.”

Michael looked him dead in the eyes, humor growing on his face as he realized he could make Dick wait as long as he wanted. Then, leaning forward, he shared in a conspirator’s whisper, “He’s in the last train in Terminal B.”

Dick kept eye contact with him for a full five seconds, silently assessing the man’s body language. It didn’t look like he was lying. But Dick was not one to underestimate an enemy. “Show me proof.”

Michael’s grin stretched further. “Gladly.”

He looked down to type into the keyboard for the monitor in front of him, and after a moment looked up and grunted in confirmation. “Here we go.”

He flipped the monitor around, so Dick could see through the glass. “This is the most recent footage. From about an hour ago. The brat’s fine.”

Dick squint at the image as it replayed several times. A stamp in the corner confirmed it was the right place and time. The image was fuzzy, but there was no mistaking Damian’s gait as he was led across the open space. The boy was favoring one foot, and he hunched over in a way Dick associated with pain in the ribs. But it was hard to tell how much of it was injury and how much was caused by the way he was being yanked by—

Was that a _leash_?

Sound dropped away. Dick’s vision went red.

A fucking _leash_.

His teeth made a loud cracking sound.

No wonder last week’s Robin witnesses were so uncomfortable. Heymann had been dragging him around like an _animal_.

Slowly, with complete control over the body that _so desperately wanted to punch Heymann in the fucking face_ , Dick looked back up at Heymann. “You’re going to regret this.” And he spun on his heel to leave.

Michael called out after him, “I’m not done with you yet!”

“I’m done with you,” Dick directed over his shoulder.

“Get back here, or the brat will be gone before you arrive.”

Dick’s steps slowed to a halt. He turned back around slowly. “You don’t want to kill him. You need him.”

The bastard was smug. “I’m in the _control room_. I can send the car away anytime I please.”

“It will come back.”

“Robin’s not leaving the train car, but I can’t keep anybody else from entering. Think about who’s riding the trains, at this time of night.” Michael smirked. “I doubt he could fight anybody off, especially in his condition. It’s not quite the lesson I was going for, but it would put him in his place.”

Dick felt nauseous. He fought away visions of Damian trapped in a train car, defenseless against any number of Gotham’s seedier citizens.

“Or, if that’s not motivating enough, there’s always the issue of the ice coating the tracks over the river—"

“What do you want?”

Michael steepled his meaty, gloved fingers. “I knew you would come around.” His grin was predatory. “I want you to rescue him.”

Dick blinked, anger momentarily forgotten in his confusion.

“Leave your weapons here. _All_ of them; I’ve studied you, and I know.”

Dick blinked again, and his posture shifted right back into angry. “You want me to willingly walk into a trap.” It fit Michael’s profile. It had to be a trap, but why wait until he had Damian?

He needed a witness. He wanted control over Robin; what better way than to force Robin to watch as Dick was killed? Make him think he’s lost any chance at escape?

Michael grinned wider, showing off sharp, yellowing teeth. Dick wondered how the man ever passed off as anything other than a monster. “I’m only giving you a ten-minute head start.”

Ten minutes. He could prepare an ambush in ten minutes. “And in ten minutes you’ll come after me?”

“I’ll send the train away. Then come after you.”

So he had to rescue Robin or risk losing him.

Dick didn’t move, entire frame frozen by the crashing wave of _rage_ flowing through him.

He couldn’t kill him. He _wouldn’t_. What kind of example would that set for Damian?

Michael’s hand hovered over the control board, over the section labelled for Terminal B. “If you want to say anything to the kid before you die, you’d better start unpacking that belt of yours.”

Only then was Dick able to take enough deep breaths to keep himself in check. He had to get Damian out of here, safe.

Then he could take care of Heymann.

He made quick work of emptying his utility belt. It was habitual, action oiled by years of practice. When he got to his supply of Batarangs, Michael frowned and spoke for the first time in two minutes. “You’ll need the bolt cutters.”

Dick quickly returned them to his pouch, not liking the implication. He turned to run down the hallway, but Michael stopped him. “You didn’t bring any ballistics?”

Dick shot him a glare and emptied a palmful of deactivated spheres over his shoulder.

Heymann nodded. “Just checking.” He looked at his watch. “You have seven minutes and twenty-seven seconds.”

Dick was gone before he could finish.

* * *

**PRESENT**

“This doesn’t concern you, Robin,” Heymann called. Then, addressing Grayson instead, “You’ve got one minute to put him down. Clock’s ticking.” He used the knife to gesture toward some of the support columns running down the middle of the terminal. “Make sure he’s got a good view.”

And then. _Then_. Grayson’s feet moved.

Damian’s head whipped around to try and catch his brother’s eyes. “What are you doing? What’s going on?”

“I’m putting you somewhere safe.”

“Don’t you _dare_ put me down." His brother gently lowered him to the ground, despite Damian’s protests. Damian shifted to rise again, but a hand carefully pushed to make him lean against the wide column at his back. He tried not to show how much the pressure hurt.

Judging by Grayson’s expression, he didn’t succeed. “Stay here.”

Whatever face Damian made, it made the swollen parts ache. “I’m not a _dog_.” That made Grayson flinch. Good. “You can’t make me—”

What he could see of Grayson’s jaw set. “You’re injured. You can’t—you _won’t_ be helping me here.”

Damian felt like screaming. His voice didn’t allow anything over a whisper. “What kind of deal did you make? You don’t have weapons. You need me.”

“I need you to be _safe_.” And as he said it, he dropped a small device into Damian’s lap. An external remote for the Batmobile.

Damian opened his mouth to argue, but Heymann’s voice drifted over from behind them. “Time’s up.” His serious tone was dampened by the edge of gleefulness in the way he brandished his knife.

Grayson was looking at him sternly. “If it goes sideways,” he said, pointing to the remote clutched tightly in one hand.

Batman rose to his feet. “This will be over fast,” he said with a dark tone.

Damian couldn’t help the way a part of him wanted to shrink away from it. Ten years of League training, flushed away in a week of conditioning. It was stupid.

Grayson’s normally graceful movements stuttered when he saw Damian’s reaction. But then he gingerly peeled Damian’s free hand off of his cape—Damian hadn’t realized he had grabbed it—and turned to face Heymann. Damian waited for a quip. None came.

Heymann hunkered slightly, putting his center of gravity lower. His knife, wicked sharp and several inches long, glittered in the low lighting of the near-abandoned terminal. “I’ve been waiting for this moment,” he shouted to them.

Batman’s back was to Damian, so he couldn’t see when he tried to stand. But apparently the sound Damian made when his chest spasmed was loud enough to warn him, because a hand shot out in the universal gesture to stay put. “So have I,” he growled.

And, like a shot had been fired, the two men charged toward each other.

Damian thought he might vomit.

* * *

Dick was never one to charge into a battle. It wasn’t the nature of the Bat, which meant it wasn’t allowed for Robin. But that ember in his gut was fueling an intense _need_ to finally take a swing at Michael. There was nothing and nobody to hold him back anymore.

So when Michael lunged, knife pointed at Dick’s gut, he didn’t disarm him with a simple kick he had learned as Robin. He used the fins on his left forearm to deflect the blade and drove his right fist into Michael’s shoulder.

To his credit, the man didn’t make a sound at the impact. But the way he had to shake his shoulder out as he righted himself was at least somewhat gratifying.

“Anybody who’s studied Batman as much as you should know better,” Dick noted.*

Michael’s face sank into an angry grimace. “You don’t have any of your weapons.”

“I don’t need them.” Dick nodded at Michael’s hand. “Do you?”

Michael adjusted his grip on the knife, flipping the blade a few times. Dick watched the movement with carefully-concealed interest. The man was familiar enough with the blade to maneuver it, but he was taking Dick’s words into consideration.

A little push. “What, are you _afraid_? Or is it that you can’t beat me with your own two hands?”

Michael leaned into his next attack, and while Dick could have stepped to the side and let the larger man breeze past without even touching him, he snapped a foot into his knee as he passed. Not hard enough to break.

Hard enough to hurt.

“Or are you just too _weak_?” he continued.

The knife clattered to the ground a few feet away. Dick smirked in triumph.

Michael leapt forward again, releasing an angry roar as he did.

The next several seconds passed in a flurry of dodges, kicks, and—occasionally sloppy—hits. Michael moved faster than Dick had predicted for his bulk, and he was _sturdy_. It took a lot of power to budge him. But Michael was not accustomed to close-quarter fighting, and especially not while he was practically frothing at the mouth. So, after about a minute, when the two men separated to catch their breath and reassess their opponent, Dick stepped back not undamaged, but with less damage than Michael.

Michael rolled his neck. “This fight not good enough for any of your fancy tricks?”

“I was just warming up.” The cape had too much drag for flips, but he had enough practice in it to compensate for its weight when he spun to kick toward Michael’s head. The man ducked, but Dick braced a hand on the floor to follow through his momentum and half-cartwheel toward him, managing to clip him in the chin with a steel heel on the way. Michael was stunned enough that he didn’t even dodge when Dick threw his fist into his chest, sending the man staggering back several steps.

“Is _that_ what you were expecting?” he asked, devoid of his normal joviality.

Michael wiped blood off his chin. Grinned. “Come one, twinkle toes.” He swung his fist forward again.

Dick stepped back out of range easily, but he wasn’t expecting Michael to open his fist at the last second, letting loose a handful of small spheres. They scattered when they hit the floor and began to flash rapidly. Dick pulled the cape up to protect his body when they detonated.

The smoke cleared enough after a second to reveal the deep gouges they had left in the concrete floor. “Those were my last ones,” Dick grumbled.

Michael had used the distraction to sneak behind him. Dick ducked out of the way easily, Michael’s fist sailing through the space where Dick’s head had been seconds before. “You didn’t even use them right.”

Michael frowned at him across the space he had gained. “Stop dodging. _Fight me_!” Something in his demeanor had shifted; his confidence was shaken. And rising to fill the gap was something uglier.

Dick’s brows lowered. “Used to easier targets?”

Michael bared his teeth. Blood outlined the white where Dick had landed a well-aimed punch earlier. “The Gotham trash isn’t usually this well-trained.” He slipped a hand into his cape, but Dick charged before he had a chance to retrieve whatever he was reaching for.

“I’m not talking about Gotham’s criminals.” Michael’s chest armor _looked_ the part, but was functionally insufficient. It was with grim satisfaction that Dick watched it crack under the force of a blow.

Michael retreated several steps, gasping for the air Dick had forced out of him. His hands, curled into fists at his side, were shaking slightly. He was pissed about his armor. Understandable.

“He wouldn’t be such an easy target if you had done your job,” Michael said between huffs.

And, oh. Dick saw _red_.

He let Michael make the first move again. He had to let the larger man think he was gaining ground, so he let an occasional fist past his defenses, where it would “force” him back a step or two. The second it reached his peripheral vision, he somersaulted over a bench. When Michael tried to follow, like he predicted, he pinned the larger man.

“My _job_? Is that what you thought you were doing?”

Michael struggled, his face pressed into the bench seat, but Dick increased the pressure on his right arm and the man got the message. Dick flipped Michael’s cape back, and sure enough, he found his own handcuffs slung through the low-budget utility belt. With one hand, deftly avoiding Michael’s other flailing arm, he retrieved them. “Is that what you thought you were doing with your wife? Your kid?”

The man stilled, just enough Dick knew Michael understood what he was implying. When he clicked one side around Michael’s left wrist, he leaned in close enough Michael was sure to hear. In his deepest rumble, he whispered, “You’re lucky I care more about _him_ than my ‘job,’ or you’d be dead.”

There was a terrible sound behind him, a retching. Dick’s attention darted to Damian just long enough to recognize the kid’s form, hunched over his side, emptying bile onto the floor next to himself.

It was just a split second, but it was long enough. Michael used the distraction and Dick’s shift in weight to his advantage, using his free arm to push his torso back. Before Dick could react, he threw his head up to butt Dick in the face.

Dick’s nose took the brunt of the hit, and tears immediately welled in his eyes. He didn’t see the second hit coming, just felt it connect to his jaw and whip his head back. On the instinctual desire not to maim anybody, he dropped Michael’s arm before he could dislocate it.

Michael rolled his shoulders again. His knees popped as he righted himself. “Josie was my wife; I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Dick’s lips curled back in disgust. “You really believe that, don’t you?” And just as quickly, he was on the defense again, dodging fists that whistled in the air centimeters from their intended targets.

They danced around one another again, but this time neither was willing to give the other a chance to catch their bearings. Michael stuck mainly to boxing and the basic training they gave police officers, so Dick pulled from his more diverse background in martial arts and other lesser-known fighting techniques. It was no-holds-barred, but this time Dick took as many hits as he dealt. He wasn’t playing defense. He took a deep satisfaction in every jab that landed, in the dull sound of his fists on Michael’s less-sturdy armor, and the way Michael’s face occasionally screwed up in pain.

When Michael tried to sweep out Dick’s feet, Dick used Michael’s lowered height to flip over his back and elbow him across his back. “What about your son?” He followed it with a swift kick to the backs of Michael’s knees.

The man hit the floor hard and let out a hiss when his weight dropped onto his bad knees.

Dick stepped on Michael’s cape, preventing him from standing back to his feet too quickly. “Did you whip him, too?”

It was minute, but Dick saw the way Michael’s shoulders hitched up. He didn’t move otherwise, and the sudden stillness caught Dick off guard.

“I would _never_ ,” Michael growled. “How dare you even _imply_ that I would.”

It only made Dick angrier. What made Damian any different? He stepped off of Michael’s cape, only to use a foot to push him to the floor.

Michael rolled to his back and scrabbled backward. “I watched him _die_. You would never understand how it feels to lose someone like that. And knowing that it was all the _Bat’s_ fault.” Michael aimed his foot at Dick’s knee, a kick powerful enough to be crippling had he not darted out of the way in time.

Michael’s gaze when it flickered behind Dick, toward Damian. Dick nimbly stepped in his way. “Josie thought you would hurt him.”

Michael’s eyes locked back to Dick’s, something incredulous there. Bingo.

When Michael shot his foot out again, Dick caught it with a grunt. He used it to force Michael onto his stomach. “I bet she told you her parents were in Gotham; that she was going for a visit.”

Michael twisted in Dick’s grip. Dick chopped at the knee so it would bend and knelt on the other, keeping the pin intact.

“But it didn’t take much digging to figure out the truth. Her parents had moved years before. She had a plane ticket to _Kentucky_ waiting for her at the Gotham airport. She was _leaving_ you.”

Dick reached for Michael’s left wrist, the one with one cuff still dangling from it. “The truth is, you were going to lose them anyway, and it was nobody’s fault but your own.”

Three things happened in that instant.

First, Michael turned enough that Dick could see his face, and Dick realized that no amount of physical pain could have hurt as much as the emotional kind he just dealt. He had never felt more happy to be use his talent of being an emotional bulldozer.

Second, Dick felt, rather than saw, something sharp slice through the soft spot just below his right armpit, where he had modified the armor for his movement style. He had enough mind to be thankful Michael was too dumb to try stabbing in the heat of the moment, and then his right hand dropped its grip on Michael’s foot when the pain caught up with him.

Third, two lights roared down the length of the terminal and slammed into the nearest pillar, sending the structure and the section of ceiling it supported careening toward them. Dick, already pulling away from the knife, was able to get himself out of the way.

But seconds later, after he had cleared his throat of the dust, he looked up to find that the remains of the ceiling, the column, and the Batmobile blocked the other half of the terminal from him.

And Michael was on the other side with Damian.

* * *

The Batmobile controller clattered to the ground, but the sound it made was nothing compared to the rage-filled scream that Heymann directed at the pile of rubble behind him. He pushed at the side of the Batmobile, and when it didn’t budge, he whirled back around to find an outlet for his anger.

“What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?” Heymann bellowed.

Damian had pushed himself to his feet, using the column at his back for support. He swallowed, eyes catching on the knife still gripped tightly in Heymann’s hands. It had been too close. “I did what I had to,” he said, the sound barely coming out as more than a hoarse whisper.

Heymann’s face twisted, nostrils flaring, cheeks reddening. Despite himself, Damian inched backward, and if it weren’t for the contact he still had with the column, he would have lost his balance.

“Robin,” Grayson said, somewhere over Heymann’s shoulder. His voice was muffled by the wall of debris. Damian didn’t dare break eye contact with Heymann, even when the rage he saw there made his hands shake.

“You’re going to pay for this,” Heymann growled. He took another step closer, and when Damian flinched, he smirked. “You know what happens when you disobey.”

“No,” Damian asserted, tired voice more confident than he felt. “I’m done playing your games. You can hit me all you want, you can’t make me do anything.”

“You little _fucker!”_ Heymann yelled. And then the massive man was charging.

Damian fought the overwhelming urge to duck and run. Instead, fueled by an unexpected, desperate burst of adrenaline, he sprang forward to meet him with an uneven gait.

He had to time it perfectly.

Heymann raised the knife over his head. Damian’s fingers tightened around his leash, pain in his fingers and the rest of his body forgotten with the rush of concentration.

When Heymann was close enough, the man threw all his bodyweight into his arm, pivoting the weapon toward Damian’s shoulder.

Damian didn’t even feel it brush his skin; he focused on Heymann’s head, watched as the man failed to compensate for his momentum. Heymann intended to barrel through Damian, throw him into the pillar so he could corner him and continue his assault.

But Damian leapt, flipping over Heymann’s lowered shoulders.

The leash between his hands pulled taught.

Heymann made a choked sound as the chain caught around his throat. Damian grunted when he landed against his back, and had to scrabble to get more leverage as Heymann threw his head back.

“Robin. Get. . . off!” Heymann wheezed. He dropped his knife in favor of clawing at one of Damian’s hands until it slipped from the chain.

But the leash only slid an inch before stopping again, held by Damian’s collar. He coughed at the sudden yank, but didn’t bother trying to recapture the length; he added his free hand to the other end and leaned back, pulling the leash tighter.

“Robin!” Dick shouted from the other side of the rubble barrier.

Heymann’s elbow rammed back into Damian’s ribs, making Damian’s breath catch. But his grip remained tight.

A smart foot found Damian’s shin and managed to kick hard enough to make it collapse beneath him. Damian choked at the change in height, but his hands held fast.

Heymann’s struggles rapidly got weaker. He was completely quiet, but Damian knew from experience that his mouth gaped. The man fell to his knees.

Damian caught sight of the _real_ Batman over Heymann’s shoulder, pushing a large piece of rebar out of the way. With labored breaths, made worse by the collar pulling tight against his own throat, he rasped in Heymann’s ear, “You’ll never be like him. He was good. He _is_ good.”

Heymann, in a last-ditch effort to throw Damian off, flopped his weight backward into the smaller boy.

Damian hissed, but he knew better than to loosen his grip. Strangling was a messy, _difficult_ way to kill someone. This was not the first time he had done it. But it was the first time he had done it of his own volition.

In the end, he was no better than Heymann said he was. Brutal.

He had to hold on.

“ _Robin_!” he heard, over the sounds of his own heart and the echo of his mother telling him to _finish it_.

He blinked. Realized he was crying.

Grayson caught his eyes. He had managed to push aside the support beam and was rushing toward him.

Heymann had gone limp.

Damian dropped the leash like it had burned him. “I’m sorry,” he rasped.

He looked down. Heymann’s face was bright red; almost purple. He couldn’t see whether his chest rose and fell through the armor.

“I’m sorry.” Damian cringed back, away from what he had done.

Heymann’s head landed heavily on the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I’m so—” he lost the word to a sob. It was the last noise his throat would tolerate, but he kept mouthing the words anyway.

“Robin,” Dick said, approaching Damian like he would a frightened wild animal.

Damian flinched away from the hand that reached for him and fell to the floor. Dick pulled it back with something like anger in his face.

 _I’m sorry_ , Damian mouthed again. He scooted back. Away from the—

The body.

He pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes. The tears burned.

Heymann was right. Grayson wouldn’t take him back.

The sound of a step toward him made his head snap back up, muscles tensing, ready for a blow.

It was just Grayson, cowl pushed back. He stepped over Heymann’s still form without a second glance.

“Damian,” he whispered.

Damian choked on a sob. He couldn’t breathe. He tried to move further away, but his back hit a wall. Instead, he raised his knees and hid his face in his lap. His arms came up to wrap over his head.

Something pulled, and he gasped. The gash to his shoulder. He had forgotten. When he looked, it was to find a spreading dark patch by his shoulder.

Dick dropped to his knees in front of him in an instant. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s okay, Damian.”

Damian’s hands clenched. “It’s not,” he managed to force out. It felt like swallowing shards of glass. “I’m s—”

“I’m going to touch you,” Dick said, cutting off another apology. “Is it okay if I pick you up?”

Damian knew he was being treated like a victim. He knew he didn’t deserve it. But he nodded.

Dick breathed deeply and wrapped Damian in his arms, squeezing ever-so-lightly. “It’s okay,” he repeated, more firmly this time. And, softly, “It’s over.”

The next several minutes were a blur. Dick unclipped his cape, and after bundling Damian in it he scooped him up.

Damian began shaking again when he saw Heymann, still lying where Damian had left him. Dick gently turned his head down into his neck and raised the cape over his eyes. He took Heymann’s pulse while he couldn’t see. And after a minute, he stood.

When Damian raised his head again, pleading for an answer, Dick just shook his head. “Not right now.

“We’re going home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *bonus dialogue, on first draft:  
> Dick smirked, flexing his biceps. “You shouldn’t have brought a knife to this gunfight.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took forever again. At least it's another longer chapter?

Now that he finally had Damian in his arms, Dick didn’t want to let go.

So he didn’t.

He paced across the grand entrance to the train station with the heaving bundle in his arms, heedless of the bloody gash in his side. He felt, rather than heard, when Damian’s adrenaline dropped; it was a slow transition from the sobs quieting to the trembling starting up again. He had to fight not to tighten his hold around him; he didn’t know what injuries were hidden beneath the crude Robin tunic, but if Michael’s words—if Damian’s _face_ was any indication, Dick had to be gentle.

When the old Batmobile arrived, he climbed into the passenger side and arranged Damian in his lap so he would be comfortable. The black cape was still clutched in the boy’s small hands.

“We’ll be home soon,” Dick promised.

Damian nodded against his shoulder. The car’s autopilot shot off toward the Cave.

Dick began typing out a quick report, more for Alfred’s sake than his own. Both of them were bleeding, and he intended on making sure they could get Damian patched up as soon as possible.

He was so wrapped up, he missed the transition to Damian sitting up fully. But he caught when one of his hands rose to his mask and faltered.

Dick sent the report where it was. It would be enough. “Do you need help?”

Damian shook his head, and in one fell swoop he peeled the mask off.

Dick did his best not to react to what lay underneath. The kid’s eyes were swollen and bloodshot. The mask left red, irritated marks around his face. Normal skin-safe adhesive wouldn’t do that; Michael must have used something else.

Damian squeezed his eyes shut tightly, and when he opened them he dropped the mask to the floor. He used his teeth to pull on the finger of one of his gloves. He only got halfway before something caught, and he opened his mouth in a gasp.

“Here.” Dick fished a pair of emergency scissors from the glove compartment and helped cut away the gloves. Damian’s fingers were a deep, dark purple, swollen to the second or third knuckle. Several had large blisters that encompassed entire joints.

Dick clenched his jaw, fighting to keep his composure. Damian wouldn’t react well to anger. But it was a clear sign of frostbite. Michael had forced Damian out into the cold long enough for his extremities to _freeze_ half to death. God, Damian could have _died_.

Michael deserved what he got. He only regretted not being the one to do it.

He didn’t stop himself from squeezing his arms around Damian in what he hoped was a comforting manner. “Let’s wait until we get to the Cave for the rest, okay? I don’t want to accidentally make anything worse.”

Damian nodded numbly, and without protest he settled his head against Dick’s shoulder again.

Dick pulled the cape back over him; Damian’s now bare fingers clutched the material close.

And now that Dick had a moment of quiet, all of his worry was bubbling back to the surface.

It wasn’t long before Dick’s worries were justified.

Alfred was waiting for them in the Batcave. He stepped forward when Dick climbed out of the Batmobile, Damian still wrapped in his cape in his arms.

“Master Damian,” Alfred breathed. “I am so _very_ glad to see you.”

Damian took a deep breath and finally lifted his head from Dick’s shoulder. Under the mottled bruises, his face was a splotchy red. He opened his mouth, like he was going to say something, but only managed a high-pitched wheeze.

Alfred’s face remained a careful neutral, but Damian’s hand flew to his mouth, dropping the cape in the process.

And Alfred sucked in a breath.

Batman’s cape dropped, revealing the ratty Robin uniform, Damian’s horribly bruised and scraped skin, the still-growing dark spot in his shoulder.

And the manacles. The collar. The leash, still swinging from Damian’s neck.

The kid made an aborted move to catch the cape again, but retreated with a hiss. Dick made a mental note to check his ribs.

Alfred cleared his throat. The report didn’t prepare him for the sight. “I’ve prepared the med bay.”

Three hours later, Alfred peeled his latex gloves off and threw them into the accumulation of trash in the biohazard bin. He double-checked the flow for the IV before nodding and stepping back. “I believe we have done everything we can.”

Damian looked small in the bed. Dick reached out a hand and ran it through Damian’s hair, freshly washed. His face was less pinched in sleep. “When do you think he’ll wake up?”

Alfred sighed. “The drugs will wear off in a few hours, but it may be hours more before the young master has had his fill of rest.”

Dick made his decision. He dragged a chair over to the bedside and sat heavily in it.

“I take it you cannot be persuaded to rest yourself?” Alfred asked.

Dick shook his head, eyes watching Damian’s chest rise and fall. “No, I’m good here.” He lifted his eyes again. The harsh medical lighting highlighted the bags underneath them. “But you can go, Alfred. Thank you.”

Alfred nodded. “Very well. I will be down with breakfast in the morning.” He started to walk out the door, then doubled back to level a look at Dick. “Be careful with your stitches.”

Dick’s smile was tired. “I will. Promise.”

After Alfred left, Dick took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. He was suddenly very aware of his position.

This was Bruce’s chair.

He had never thought he would be here. And, in this moment, he suddenly understood Bruce’s reasoning. Every time he had been hurt as Robin, every time _any_ of them were injured in the field, Bruce had kept vigil in this chair. Hundreds of hours, watching small chests rise and fall and wondering whether the next time—because in this field there was _always_ a next time—the breaths would stop. Bruce had questioned, in those moments, whether it was all worth it. Robin had always insisted it was.

As Dick, right now, it wasn’t.

He picked up the clipboard from the nearby counter and flipped through their notes.

With each description was a picture. It was standard protocol, just in case something happened and they needed the evidence. Bruce had been a diligent record-keeper, and it hadn’t done them wrong yet, so who was Dick to break the tradition?

But it made a morbid collection of case notes. He flipped past dark purple bruises, a swelled ankle, fractured ribs, and gravel-embedded scrapes. Frostbite had leeched into his fingers, toes, and the tips of his ears, but Alfred thought they would make a full recovery with care. There were rings of blisters and bruises around his wrists and neck they couldn’t treat until they had completed the painstaking process of removing the welding. (And Damian had had to fight to breathe through his rising panic.)

He paused on the picture they had taken of Damian’s back, shortly after they had had to sedate him.

Welts criss-crossed Damian’s back, raised and red. Several of them had been reopened when they peeled the tunic off, and they wept cloudy fluid. Infection. The largest one ran from Damian’s right shoulder all the way down to his left hip. It had taken an hour to meticulously clean and bandage each open laceration, and Dick had spent the entire time replaying the sounds from the recording Michael had left him.

Dick rested his chin in his hand and stared at the picture. Even before the recent trauma, there had been scars on Damian’s back. Dick had never mentioned them; Damian’s odd comment about his time at the League gave plenty of hints as to where they came from.

But this. This wasn’t caused by a literal league of villains. It wasn’t done in the name of training. This was one man.

Dick hadn’t been able to protect Damian from _one man_.

He thought of the way that Damian had gasped when they had started working on the collar. One man had done it, but it was Dick’s fault that Damian was in the position in the first place.

There must have been something about the chair, because even though every rational part of his brain was telling him not to repeat Bruce’s mistakes and wallow in self-flagellation, Dick went to the Batcomputer and pulled up what footage could be salvaged from the train terminal. He should have done something different. He would be better, next time.

Because there was _always_ a next time.

Things came back to Damian slowly.

He wasn’t cold.

He didn’t hurt.

He wasn’t alone, and for the first time in a long time, it was a good thing.

Fingers threaded through his hair, sweeping his limp bangs out of his face, and Damian let himself relax. The gesture was one he had recently grown accustomed to; Grayson was a tactile person, and Damian admitted he found it grounding. He let the feeling of _safe_ settle over him like a weighted blanket.

For now, as long as he didn’t indicate he was awake, nothing would change. He could delay the inevitable.

And then, as his mind wandered, the fingers in his hair got larger. They roughly parted his hair and smoothed it back. Tugged at individual pieces, trying to imitate the slight curl in the original Robin’s hair.

_“Are you ready to listen now?_ ”

Damian’s breath caught.

He jerked his head to the side, trying to dislodge the fingers. The hand pulled away, but Damian tensed in preparation for the hit he knew would follow.

“Hey, kiddo—Damian. It’s okay.”

It was just Grayson. Damian opened his eyes, and it took several seconds for the blurry blob in front of him to resolve into the familiar figure.

“There you are,” Dick smiled. His hand twitched, like he wanted to reach out and touch him again. But he held back.

Damian couldn’t blame him.

He was awake. No use in delaying it any longer.

But when he opened his mouth, Dick cut in, squeezing his arm to get his attention. “Shhh, don’t try to talk. We need to give your voice a break.”

Damian winced, and raised a hand to prod at his neck, feel for the bruising and swelling he was sure was there. It took a moment for him to process what he felt.

The collar was gone.

He swallowed, and though the inside of his throat felt raw, there was no telltale tightness where the metal should be. When he looked at his hands, it was with relief. There were no shackles, either. Just a heavy swath of bandages; a monitor clamped around his least-swollen finger.

He was really free.

His vision started to go blurry around the edges again. He stubbornly blinked the wetness away.

“Here.”

Damian jumped when something landed in his lap.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to. . .” Dick trailed off, and shook his head. “It’s a keyboard. You type into it, and it will speak for you.”

The device was heavier than Damian anticipated. It looked like the bottom half of a laptop, with a tiny screen display and a speaker. He experimentally pecked at the keyboard—several of his fingers were wrapped too thickly to type traditionally.

**_“_ ** **Shit.”**

Dick let out a startled laugh. “ _Language_ ,” he admonished, not able to keep the smile out of his voice.

Now that his vision was clear, he could give Dick a more critical once-over. The first thing to catch his eye were the heavy bags of sleep deprivation under his eyes. Dark blotches littered his jawline, camouflaged under a light shadow of scruff. A particularly nasty bruise swelled his left cheek, and it was with grim humor that Damian noted they probably matched on that front. Dick wore a loose-fitting shirt; Damian couldn’t see how serious the knife wound was.

**“Are you okay. _”_**

Dick’s smile shrank slightly. “I’m better than I’ve been all week.”

Damian felt heat rise to his cheeks and looked away. Of course the week had been hard on him; he had to track down a “ _feral_ ” Robin. But he wanted a different kind of answer. Rather than typing it out again, he pointed at Dick’s shoulder.

“Oh, that?” Dick’s free hand settled under his arm, over the bulk of what must have been bandages. “Alfred patched it up. Nothing a few stitches couldn’t fix.”

At Damian’s answering silence, Dick rolled his eyes. “I promise. I’m okay.” And this time, Dick didn’t hesitate to cup the side of Damian’s face. “What I really want to know is, how are _you_?”

Damian couldn’t talk, but he could still click his tongue. He was thankful for the keyboard; he had an excuse not to make eye contact while he lied through his teeth. **_“_ I am fine _.”_**

The thumb of the hand on his face ran over his cheek softly. “Are you sure? No pain? I can have Alfred up the painkillers. You’re almost due for another dose, anyway.”

Damian shook his head. His ribs ached, his throat burned, but he could deal with it.

He could tell Dick wasn’t taking his answer at face value, but he dropped the subject and his hand. “Are you hungry? Alfred made soup.”

Damian thought about it, and how dry his mouth felt. **“Water.”**

“We’ve got you on an IV for fluids. You’ve soaked up a liter already.”

At the mention of the IV, Damian took a better look at himself. There was an IV in his elbow, taped into place, leading up to two bags on a pole next to the bed. His ankle felt stiff, and when he tried to flex it didn’t budge. There was also a sensor clamped around his finger, leading back to an EKG, though the sound must have been turned off. He tried to twist around to see what was behind him, but a sharp pain pinched in his ribs.

“Hey, don’t do that. You’ll hurt yourself.”

Damian huffed, settling back against the bed again. Dick reached down and the back of the bed started to rise. Damian resisted the urge to cross his arms as it forced him to sit up, not quite enough to appease his urge for correct posture, but enough he could see his surroundings more clearly.

They were still in the medbay, which meant Damian hadn’t been out of it for more than a few hours; any longer and they would move him upstairs. But they probably didn’t want to give him any false hope. He wouldn’t be staying in the Manor anymore.

There was a soft _pop_ , and a wonderful aroma wafted over from Dick’s direction. Damian’s stomach growled, and he held out a hand in request.

The thermos Dick handed him was warm, and Damian wrapped his hands around it gratefully. The smell was even stronger, held under his nose—tomato basil. Simple, but difficult to master. The first sip hit the back of his tongue and the flavor physically hurt his mouth as it reacted.

“Not too fast. I don’t want you to get sick.”

“Tt.” Damian rolled his eyes, but he did lower the thermos to let the liquid settle in his stomach.

And then it was quiet. Dick played with the sheet over Damian’s leg, and Damian avoided eye contact to look into the thermos, his questions ballooning as he remembered everything that had happened. Everything he had done.

Finally, he got the courage to pick up the keyboard again. Dick looked up in interest, patiently waiting for whatever he had to say.

**“How shall we proceed.”** The robotic voice saved Damian from having to speak the words without giving his emotions away, but he caught Dick staring at the EKG behind himself before answering.

“We don’t have to have this conversation right now.”

**“Yes.”**

Dick sighed and looked over his shoulder, as though hoping Alfred would intervene. But the butler was nowhere to be seen. He turned back to Damian and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Are you sure?”

**“Yes.** ” Damian’s forehead hurt where he was furrowing his brows. The stupid keyboard could not convey his insistence. He wanted to get this over with.

Dick studied his face, and when he didn’t find what he was looking for, he took a deep breath. “There are some. . . questions. We aren’t sure exactly. . . .” Dick squeezed his eyes shut. “No, this is too soon. We aren’t talking about this.”

**“What questions.”** Here it was. Damian’s hands clenched around the keyboard in his lap. He looked away from the wall; he wanted to see Dick’s face when he told him to leave.

Dick’s lips pressed together, and he looked past the bed at some of the machinery behind Damian. Damian’s cheeks heated up when he realized he was looking at the heart monitor again.

“The cameras in the train terminal lost connection in the crash. They have footage leading up to then, but nothing after.” Dick paused, easing into a new position in his chair.

Damian eyed him with suspicion; there was definitely some other injury he must have been hiding. Probably didn’t want to reveal any weaknesses, afraid how Damian would react when he told him to leave.

“I have some evidence that Michael. . . left for Batman. But we need to make sure the case is airtight.”

Dread pooled in Damian’s gut. **“Case.”**

Dick ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah. The public won’t like that vigilantes were violent with an officer. We need to prove it was done in self-defense.” Damian started typing, but Dick pressed on. “Gordon said he would testify in our favor. I already sent a short report to the police, but he says we’ll need your testimony to—"

**“Is he dead.”**

Dick cut off abruptly. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before saying, “We aren’t talking about that right now.”

**“Tell me.** ”

“ _No_ , Damian.”

**“Please**.” When Damian looked up from the keyboard, he was met with a steely gaze. Dick looked _angry_.

Damian flinched. It was answer enough.

He didn’t know what he expected to gain with the knowledge. He imagined a different scenario, where Dick told him the man was still alive, but it didn’t relieve the gross feeling in his gut. Dead or alive, it didn’t change the fact Damian had tried to kill him.

At least this way, he would stay gone.

Heymann’s words float back into his mind like a thick fog _. “Every bone, huh? You’ll have to teach me that trick sometime.”_

It was with shaking hands that Damian tapped out his next words. **“When will my mother arrive?”**

Dick froze. “Talia?”

**“She is on her way.”** Frustrated the mechanical voice didn’t convey questions well, Damian kept typing. **“Is she not.”**

“I. . . “ Dick trailed off. He covered his mouth with his hand. “I haven’t told her yet.”

Damian bit his tongue.

“I’ll let her know—you want her to come?”

Damian shrugged. **“I would prefer her accompany me on the way back.”**

“On the way. . .” Dick muttered the words back to himself. Then he rested his hand on Damian’s. “You want to go back? With Talia?”

Damian shut his eyes. _No_.

He couldn’t bring himself to type anything.

“Dami, hey.” Fingers lightly brushed his cheeks, and Damian realized he had let a tear slip free. “Can you look at me?”

Damian opened his eyes. He had to blink away extra fluid to clear his vision, sending another drop down his face.

When it cleared, he realized that Dick’s eyes were wet, too. “I’m sorry.”

Whatever Damian was expecting to hear, it wasn’t that.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. If you want to go back with your mom, I understand.” Dick ran a hand through Damian’s hair, and lowered his forehead to rest on Damian’s. “But I just got you back, and I’m not ready to say goodbye yet.”

It was enough pressure to cause the last remnants of the dam inside Damian to crumble, and the last week’s emotions flooded through his system all over again. He curled over himself, a deep sob hurting his chest.

Dick immediately dove in, unfolding him and pulling him against his chest into a hug. Damian didn’t mind that his ribs and back hurt, that the IV was pulling at his arm. He wrapped his arms over Dick’s shoulders and hugged back, as hard as he could. He buried his face in Dick’s shoulder and cried silently. Dick rubbed circles on his back and gently swayed side to side. A wet spot grew on Damian’s shoulder.

When Damian’s eyes had run out of moisture to shed, his chest felt lighter than it had in days. He took a raggedy breath, and whispered a feeble, “I’m sorry.”

Dick shushed him, and whispered back, “You don’t need to be.” He pulled back, wiped his own eyes with the back of his hand. “Do you really want to go back?”

Damian shook his head. “I thought you wouldn’t want me.”

Dick huffed a laugh, but it was weepy. “I’ve put up with you this long, haven’t I? Why would that change?”

Damian was still. Even if his voice hadn’t been wrecked, he would have only been able to whisper his next words. “I broke my promise. I killed him.”

Dick gave Damian a long, calculating look. “You know what?” His hands, on Damian’s shoulders, squeezed and released. “If I was you, I would have done the same thing.”

Damian shrugged off Dick’s hands. _Yeah, right_.

But Dick went in for another embrace. “It’s just you and me, now. Whatever happens, we’re in this together.

“You don’t have to leave until you want to.”

Alfred woke up at the same time he did every day. After a week without Master Damian, Titus and Alfred the cat had gotten used to seeking out the butler for their morning meals, so it was three sets of footsteps that made their way to the kitchens promptly at seven.

After feeding the animals—they would be elated to see the young master home again—he set to work preparing breakfast. He stuck with something simple, in case Damian had a bad reaction to the medications. Toast and homemade raspberry preserves, with a glass of apple juice. Coffee for Richard. (He knew Damian would end up with the caffeine, but he could not outright prepare it for him.)

He knew it was unlikely, but he checked Richard’s room. Empty, as expected. He doubted the man would step foot in his room today, but he opened the curtains, anyway. Then he set the food on a tray and made his way to the Cave.

He reached the bottom of the steps and stilled at what he saw.

Richard was like Bruce in many ways, but Alfred was learning that the young man had learned what not to do during his tenure as Bruce’s ward. It had been a long time since an occupant so young had been forced to take residence in the cave’s medical facilities; longer still since an adult had spent the night without spending the entire evening sitting at the computer.

He set his tray down on a nearby table with all of the grace he possessed, careful to keep the peaceful quiet of the cave. For both Richard and Damian were curled up on the bed, a tangle of limbs, breaths even in a peaceful sleep.

Together, as they should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it. I am officially counting this story "complete."
> 
> Thank you, everyone, for your incredibly kind, patient, and encouraging comments. I have made a lot of friends writing this! Y'all have kept me motivated through the rewrites and the writer's block and the too-busy-to-even-think-about-the-fic moments. Thank you :)
> 
> I don't have anything solid yet, but I think I would like to do a sequel sometime? I have some ideas I would like to explore, (and I owe you more cuddles than just initial-reunion fluff), I just need a *plot* haha. So keep an eye out! My tumblr is @fidothefinch ;)


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